


Too Close To Home

by MelanieR



Series: Alternate Universe [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanieR/pseuds/MelanieR
Summary: Sequel to 'All Our Yesterdays'. Duncan takes his family to visit Scotland.
Series: Alternate Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687246
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Too Close To Home

*Seacouver-September 1993*

Duncan MacLeod muttered under his breath and tried, yet again, to maneuver a lid onto an oblong crate sitting in the center of the showroom floor. It seemed as though he had just uncrated the Coat of Arms and here he was packing it up again to go back into storage. The same was true of every valuable in the store.

He wondered, not for the first time, just what had possessed him to suggest going off to Scotland so soon after returning from Paris. He didn't have an answer to that, but his obsession with getting his family out of Seacouver had only grown stronger over the past few weeks until the urgency had infected his wife, as well. Tessa had been a force of nature, arranging for security on the store and apartment for the duration of their trip, and booking the airline reservations to Duncan's homeland. Of the three of them, only Richie had retained his usual unruffled attitude about the coming adventure, accepting the notion of another extended trip with a shrug of his shoulders and a smile for his manifestly-demented parents. Duncan supposed growing up with an Immortal for a father had prepared the boy for just about anything. What was a trip abroad compared to that reality?

As he focused on the task at hand, he felt a slight tingling at the base of his skull-a sensation as familiar to him as his own voice. "Richie, hand me that hammer, would you?"

Headed for the office, Richard Ryan MacLeod stopped in mid-stride and changed direction, grabbing the hammer from the top of a nearby display case and stepping up to stand at the opposite side of the crate.

"You know, someday I'm gonna figure out how you always know it's me without looking."

Duncan did look up at him then and gave him a small smile. "Your mother's in the office. Who else would come through the place like he owned it?"

"Yeah, I suppose," Richie conceded, handing over the tool and scrutinizing his father closely.

Duncan leaned over the crate tapping the lid into place, then looked up to eye Richie suspiciously as the teenager continued to study him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Richie said innocently, then frowned.

"*What*, Richie?" the Scot demanded.

"Nothing...really. It's just...I think I see a grey hair. Maybe you should think about getting a dye job, Dad. If you start showing your age, you're gonna scare away customers."

Duncan glowered at him. "Very funny. Give me a hand with this thing." He moved to the larger end of the crate.

"I thought you were going to store this away yesterday."

"I didn't get to it."

Richie made tsking noises with his tongue. "I don't know if I should be helping you with this. I mean, what kind of lesson will you learn from that?" he asked, mimicking one of his father's favorite lectures, eyes alight with mischief.

"Richie," Duncan ground out.

"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a twist," the teenager soothed, hands up. He turned toward the other end of the crate, then stopped, observing his father once more. "Maybe I should take the heavy end, Dad."

Duncan stood to his full six feet, two inches and looked down at his son. "Are you trying to say I can't lift this? Maybe you think you could do a better job of it?"

"Well, I *am* nineteen."

"Yes, for two whole days now. And getting a little too big for your britches, if you ask me."

"Big for my britches? Is that, like, some saying from the olden days?"

"Richie..."

"Dad, all I'm saying is that you *are* four hundred now, and maybe you should start taking it easy," Richie teased, just barely maintaining a straight face.

"Is that right?" Duncan asked, eyes narrowing; he slowly advanced on the boy. "So, you think I'm in my dotage, do ye?"

Richie scuttled quickly around the corner of the crate and made a dash for freedom. Duncan's longer strides caught him halfway across the showroom floor. He spun the loudly protesting teenager around and tossed him over his shoulder, wrapping his arm around the boy's legs as he dangled him several feet off the ground.

"What was that you were saying about my being old?" he queried, wearing a broad smile now.

"Okay, okay," Richie laughed, trying unsuccessfully to find a way of freeing himself from his father's grip without landing on his head. "You're the strongest, grey-haired, four hundred-year-old Immortal Scotsman in Seacouver."

Duncan bounced him easily on his shoulder, temporarily knocking the wind out of the kid. "What was that?"

"Ugh. Geez, okay. You're the finest specimen of manhood on the western seaboard. Women turn into little puddles of goo whenever you pass by."

"Puddles of goo?" Duncan repeated, shaking with laughter and nearly dropping his son. "I don't think I like that image at all."

"What on Earth!"

Duncan spun around to find a certain tall blonde regarding them with a fierce scowl.

"How many times have I told you two not to roughhouse in the store?" Tessa asked sternly, standing hands-on-hips in the doorway of the office.

"Uh, sorry, Mom," Richie offered from his upside-down position.

"That goes for you, too, Duncan MacLeod," she announced, eyeing the Scot until he set Richie back on his feet and made a great show of brushing off the boy. The pair stood regarding her with innocent expressions after that until a sigh escaped her. "Honestly, sometimes I don't know which one of you is the teenager," she muttered. "Richie, have you finished packing?"

"Um, almost," he answered noncommittally.

Tessa's eyebrows shot up at that. "And just how much is 'almost'?"

"I'll start right now."

"See that you do. We leave for Scotland in two days, remember?" she countered, and turned away into the office, leaving them both staring after her.

A smothered snort of laughter had Duncan contemplating his son suspiciously. "What's so funny?"

"You as a teenager," Richie said, assuming a defensive stance and holding an imaginary sword out in front of him. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," he proclaimed in an exaggerated high-pitched squeak. "Fear my wrath."

His burst of unrestrained laughter was interrupted by a menacing growl from his father, and followed by the sound of pounding feet as Richie raced for the relative safety of his room, with Duncan in hot pursuit.

"And no running!" Tessa shouted, from the interior of the office.

~~~~~~~~~~

The 747 landed in London International Airport two days later and they hopped their connecting flight to Inverness International Airport, nestled at the foot of the Highlands. It had been a long flight and a longer day, but the brisk air flowing into the valley from the surrounding crags revived the MacLeods' energies-as did the lush and colorful scenery.

Duncan scanned the crowd at the gate for signs of Dougal MacPherson, a former diplomat who had settled into a post at the University in Inverness, and an *old* and dear friend. As soon as Dougal had learned that the MacLeod family was making a long overdue sojourn to fair Scotland, he had offered his home as an alternative to a motel. Duncan had tried to cry off, not wanting to impose on his hospitality, but Dougal would not be swayed. He had more room than he needed, he'd said, and spent much of his time travelling between Glasgow, Edinburgh and Inverness, leaving the house vacant.

"So what's Mr. MacPherson look like, anyway? Maybe I can check around," Richie offered, dropping his mother's carry-on and his own backpack on the terminal floor, and smothering a yawn with one hand.

"Just look for a moving mountain."

"Huh?"

Any explanation that might have followed was interrupted by a bellow that threatened to shatter glass, and Richie barely had time to leap aside before a huge figure cleared a path through the line of disembarking passengers and engulfed his father in a bear-hug, lifting the elder MacLeod off his feet.

Tessa moved swiftly to Richie's side and latched onto his arm, the mother and son watching the spectacle with wide eyes and more than a little trepidation. Richie, for his part, had seen very few people who actually towered over his father; and Tessa, though she knew Duncan would suffer no permanent damage, still winced as he was shaken like a rag doll and dropped back onto his feet.

She released the breath she was holding when Duncan laughed and thumped the larger man in the chest before hugging him back in a much more sedate manner.

"You're nothing but skin and bones, mon. Have ye no been eating these many years?" MacPherson observed, turning Duncan from side to side as easily as one would a rag doll.

"I'm the same size I've always been," Duncan retorted, smiling. "Don't blame the rest of us just because that oversized lump you call a body didn't know when to stop growing."

"Och, the mon's daft. Lump, is it?" MacPherson muttered, a smile breaking through the thick black beard he sported. "Jealous is what ye are."

Duncan snorted in response, then remembered his wife and son who, he noted, had stepped well back from the demonstrative Scotsman. "Tessa," he murmured, drawing her forward reassuringly.

"Dougal, this is Tessa. Tessa, Dougal MacPherson."

"How do you do," Tessa greeted him, offering her hand warily, lest the large man decide to pull her into a hug, as well.

MacPherson surprised her by laying a large, but surprisingly gentle, hand in hers, his eyes drifting across her face.

"Ye didna do her justice, Duncan. She's a rare flower, she is. No wonder ye had crowds swarming around ye, just hoping for a glimpse o' her."

Tessa's cheeks filled with color at the compliment and she pressed both hands against them, giggling in spite of herself.

"Mom's blushing," Richie proclaimed, smiling widely.

"Don't be silly. It's just the change in climate," Tessa quickly corrected, frowning mildly in her son's direction. "It's so nice to meet you, Mr. MacPherson. Duncan has told me all about your exploits."

"Lies, all lies, I swear it," the large Scot assured her with a twinkle in his eye. "And it's Dougal, please. Mr. MacPherson is much te' formal fer friends."

"Dougal, then," Tessa replied with a warm smile.

MacPherson seemed momentarily dazed and received an elbow to the stomach from Duncan as he continued to stare raptly at the Frenchwoman. "Oh, aye," he mumbled, then sighed like a lovesick schoolboy, his gaze shifting from Tessa to the amused Scot at his side. "What ye see in the likes of this scrawny fellow, I canna understand."

"Well, he does have a few good qualities," Tessa returned, giving Duncan's arm a squeeze.

"Aye, I suppose," Dougal conceded with a small smile, and clapped Duncan on the shoulder. "I've been searching high and low for ye and your bonny missus...and who is this?" he asked, circling Richie now. "This canna be the wee laddie. From the way ye spoke of him in your letters I expected a bairn, no a young mon."

"I'm nineteen," Richie informed him, pulling his shoulders back.

"Aye, I can see tha', laddie. A few more years and ye'll be a match fer your Da."

Richie puffed up considerably at that and developed a fast liking for the hulking Scotsman.

"He's the look abou' him, Duncan," Dougal continued. "No matter who he was born te, he's a MacLeod, now, and no doubt abou' it."

Tessa noticed that both Richie and Duncan puffed up at that observation. It was easy to see how Dougal MacPherson had found his calling in diplomacy.

"And red hair," he exclaimed. "Now that's a welcome sight in these parts, te be sure. He'll be turning the lassies' heads, I warn ye."

Richie smiled broadly at that, and couldn't restrain himself from looking around for any signs of the aforementioned young ladies.

"Don't encourage him," Duncan counseled with a loud snort, as Richie shouldered the two bags again and the group started off to retrieve the remainder of the luggage with Dougal and Tessa in the lead. "I want Richie to learn about Scottish history, not Scottish females."

"Are you saying women aren't an integral part of Scottish history?" Richie piped in. "You hear that, Mom? Dad says women aren't important."

He received a thump on the back of the head from his father for that little misquote.

"Richie, don't taunt your father," Tessa admonished without turning. "Duncan, don't hit him so hard, you might knock something loose."

"I think he already did, Mom," Richie grumbled, ruefully rubbing the back of his head. "We'd better go to the hospital, just to be sure. I'll bet they have a lot of pretty young nurses in Scotland," he added wistfully.

"Now, see what you've done," Duncan muttered good-naturedly in MacPherson's direction.

A chuckle from Dougal rapidly segued into a full-throated laugh. "I see what ye mean, mon. I'm sorry, laddie," he continued, casting Richie a commiserating glance over one broad shoulder, "all Scottish nurses are well into their forties, 'tis the law."

"Oh. Well, maybe I can tough it out," Richie offered, smiling faintly at the obvious fabrication.

"We'd all appreciate it," Duncan retorted, giving the boy another playful thump.

"Ye must all be verra tired from your journey," Dougal observed, steering them toward the baggage claim area. "We'll get ye settled in and ye can rest yourselves for what remains o' the day. Plenty o' time to be scouring the countryside fer diversions in the weeks te come. I hope ye'll no be disappointed in my modest home."

"I take it you've never seen our place in Seacouver," Richie snickered. "It's not exactly the Taj Mahal."

"I have no been te The States since they had that wee fire in Chicago. Eighteen seventy-one, I think it was," he confided for their ears only.

"They've rebuilt," Duncan said drolly.

"Aye, well, I thought they might," the larger man returned, grinning at the gibe. "Right grand little blaze it was, though."

Dougal's 'modest' home turned out to be a rather impressive two-story stone-faced abode sitting at the end of what Tessa termed "a picturesque little tree-lined street, just begging to be sketched".

Richie was overjoyed to learn that his room was at the far end of the hall from his parents', announcing loftily that the close quarters at home sometimes "cramped his style". Tessa took great pains to remind him that she and Duncan would still be keeping track of his comings and goings, and he shouldn't get any ideas about trying to sneak out after hours. The innocent look he shot her amused Dougal no end, and the large Scot immediately labeled Richie "The Wee Scamp"-to the teenager's mortification.

The family decided to accept Dougal's earlier advice-wandering about the house and grounds, but otherwise spending the day simply getting acclimated to the change in hours and temperatures, which was an adjustment in itself.

Tessa finally bowed to the inevitable, and took a much-needed nap to fortify herself for the evening; she couldn't manage to corral her active offspring long enough to get him to do the same. And his horrified expression at the mere suggestion that he might need a "nap" had her shaking her head and throwing up her hands in surrender.

As it was, Richie nearly fell asleep during dinner, his eyelids drooping considerably before the end of the meal, despite his protests that he was absolutely, positively *not* tired. Only Duncan's little surprise announcement that they had arrived in time for a soiree that the Historical Society was holding in remembrance of those who had fallen at Culloden, revived his energies for a time. Duncan had made a point of acquainting his son with his past-good and bad-instilling in the boy a fierce determination to understand the motivations behind the wars his father had felt strongly enough to take part in. The American-based wars, like the Revolutionary war and the Civil War, these he had read about in school. What he knew of the Battle of Culloden he had learned from his father alone and, somehow, that made it much more interesting.

After he had exhausted even Dougal with his endless supply of questions, Tessa finally declared the evening at a close and hustled him off to bed, playfully berating her husband for having created a monster as they turned in for the night, as well.

They all slept in the next morning-with the exception of Dougal, who had a morning meeting at the University-then had an unhurried brunch and headed into town to do a little shopping. Tessa had stubbornly insisted on stocking the kitchen since there were three of them and only one of Dougal; though, if dinner had been any indication, the large Scot ate as much as Duncan and Richie combined which, considering her son's appetite, was saying quite a lot.

Since they had broken their fast late that morning, they decided to jump feet first into seeing the sites, agreeing on a late afternoon trip to Culloden moor, planning to enjoy a meal of chicken, fruit, cheese and bread, and satisfy some of Richie's curiosity about the area, at the same time.

Richie, himself, had escaped the shopping expedition early-feigning another bout of jet lag-but was nowhere to be found when his parents returned home to unload the groceries and gather him up for the trip. From the pile of clothing lying in the center of his bedroom, Tessa deduced that he had gone off to test the waters, so to speak, in the nearest lake, despite her warnings that he would find the temperature not to his liking.

She had discovered long ago that sometimes her son had to learn things the hard way.

Tessa was about to send Duncan off in search of the AWOL teenager, when the door flew open and a blue-tinged form in a green bathing suit streaked past, teeth chattering, feet pounding up the stairs, barely discernible monosyllabic sounds issuing from its mouth and a large towel flying out behind. The footsteps continued down the upper hallway and into the bathroom, where the sound of water running in the shower and a loud shout of relief were clearly heard by the occupants below.

"Was that Richie?" Duncan asked, mouth twitching.

"I hope so," Tessa replied, shaking her head. "I warned him that it was too late in the season, but did he listen? No. Hard-headed, just like his father."

"You'll notice I'm fully clothed," Duncan pointed out, though he did grin at the comparison. Truth be told, he had pulled a few ill-conceived stunts in his mis-spent youth. All right, more than a few. "It won't hurt him, Tessa, and it might teach him a lesson. Look before you leap."

Tessa rolled her eyes at the much-used idiom and put the finishing touches to the picnic dinner she was packing. "Why don't you go and hurry him along. You said we would have a little walk in front of us to reach the moor. We should get started soon if we want to have time to wander about after we eat."

"You're right, and I need to make a call and see if the tailors have finished with the tartans I had airmailed in. They needed some cleaning, but there was enough extra material to fashion an outfit for you and a kilt for Richie to wear to the Remembrance."

"You haven't mentioned that to him yet, have you?"

"No, not yet."

"This should be interesting," Tessa murmured, placing a blanket next to the basket. Duncan grunted his agreement and headed upstairs to light a fire under their son.

It was a short drive east of Inverness, then a brisk walk to reach the area where Duncan insisted they hold their picnic-through a densely-wooded area and up a grass-covered hill that seemed to touch the blue and white cloud-filled sky.

Duncan reached the top first and pulled Tessa up the last few steps to stand beside him and gaze at the vista around them.

"You were right, Duncan. It's lovely," Tessa sighed, smiling at the flowers filling the meadow below.

"Worth the climb?"

"Oh, yes," she murmured, leaning back against him as he wrapped his arms around her, her blond tresses blowing gently in the breeze.

A string of muttered curses behind them signaled the arrival of their teenage porter. Richie let out one more curse, in Gaelic this time-earning a raised eyebrow from his father-before dumping the overflowing basket and blankets down at the top of the hill and rehashing the current topic of conversation.

"No way am I wearing a skirt to this party."

Duncan frowned him down. "*Kilt*, Richie. It's a kilt, not a skirt, and we've been over this already. It won't hurt you to look the part of a Scotsman for one evening. And, trust me, you'd feel more out of place in pants once we got there. Everyone will have on the clothing of the time, even if they have to beg, borrow or steal to get it. You're lucky, you won't have to do any of those things."

"Yeah, I'm lucky," Richie droned, his skepticism plain. "I just hope no one back in Seacouver hears about this or I'll never live it down. And I don't care what anybody says, I'm wearing underwear."

Tessa carefully spread out the blanket and arranged the basket atop it. "You can wear your bathing suit underneath your kilt if it will make you feel better. You might as well get some use out of it. I told you it would be too cold to go swimming this time of year in Scotland."

Richie grinned crookedly. "Well, you can't blame a guy for trying. I almost froze my as.. um, hindquarters off," he finished tactfully, dropping down on the blanket across from his parents. "Besides, who ever heard of going to the Scottish Highlands in late September?"

"Your father," Tessa commented, patting Duncan's arm fondly for emphasis.

"Yeah, the infamous Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," Richie retorted, smiling broadly.

"Infamous, am I?" Duncan asked, quirking one eyebrow. "I doubt if more than half a dozen people in all of Scotland would recognize my name now. It's been nearly two hundred and fifty years since the battle, remember?"

"Don't be so modest," Tessa said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "According to Dougal, you were something of a legend in your time."

"Remind me to have a talk with Dougal," he grumbled, pulling a giggle from his wife.

"Hey, Dad, if they fought the battle of Culloden on April sixteenth, how come they're holding the Remembrance in September?"

"Charles Edward Stuart...that's the Bonny Prince Charlie you've read about in school, entered Edinburgh with two thousand men in September of 1745. The British called us "The Forty-Five." That was the beginning, Richie. We're celebrating their lives, not their deaths at Culloden Moor."

"Did all two thousand die?" Richie was wide-eyed with curiosity.

"Most," was the solemn reply. "Those that lived were broken men. But it wasn't only locals and common folk who died, Son. Nearly a thousand nobles were put to death for taking part in the rebellion. George II was a very unforgiving man." There was more than a hint of anger underlying the words.

A sudden strong wind snatched Tessa's bonnet from her head, sending it tumbling toward the other side of the hilltop. Richie made a grab for it, but it sailed on out of reach, in spite of his muttered, "Come back here, you."

He and his father both started to climb to their feet and go after it as it continued to dance along the ground, moving further away from their little feast.

"Oh, no," Tessa cried, as another gust of wind sent the hat flying over the side out of sight.

They all moved to the edge together and stood peering over cautiously; the soil on this side appeared to be much less hospitable than on the way they had come. The ground below sloped down at an ever-increasing angle until it plummeted in a drop of fifty or more feet to the rocks and outcropping below. The hat was sitting a dozen or so feet short of the drop, its blue ribbon waving gaily in the breeze.

Tessa sighed and shook her head at the loss of an old favorite.

"Don't worry, Mom, I'll get it," Richie offered, and started forward without a second thought.

Duncan immediately snatched him back by the collar. "You stay here, *I'll* get it," he corrected.

Richie shrugged, but appeared willing to comply as his father maneuvered over the edge and carefully made his way down the sloping embankment, mindful of the loose clods of dirt and stones that shifted beneath his feet. He snatched up the bonnet from where it had snagged on the protruding branch of a long-dead bush, and slowly began the ascent.

He met Richie three-quarters of the way back to the top.

The boy stood nonchalantly on a very precarious perch of slate rock, grinning down at him, unmindful of the drop below.

"I thought I told you to stay with your mother," Duncan reminded him, scowling as more stones skittered away around their feet. "You're too eager to put yourself in dangerous situations, you know that?"

"Hey, what can I say-like father, like son," Richie retorted impudently, apparently unfazed by the unstable ground.

"Up," Duncan instructed, turning Richie by the arm and placing a hand at the small of the boy's back to steady him as they started the climb, positioning himself behind the youth as a safeguard, should he lose his footing.

An irate Tessa was waiting at the top, tapping her foot rapidly, lips pursed in a thin line.

"Richard Ryan MacLeod," she breathed out, her voice rising with each word. "Didn't your father tell you to stay put? That did not mean for you to take off after him as soon as my back was turned. What would have happened if you had fallen?"

"Splat?"

"That is not funny, young man," Tessa admonished, delicate brows lowered dangerously over sky-blue eyes.

"No, it isn't," Duncan agreed, adding his frown to hers.

"I just thought you might need some help. I'm not a little kid anymore, you know? I'm nineteen."

"Well, go sit your nineteen-year-old butt on the blanket and finish your lunch," Duncan ordered sternly. "And while you're at it, think about why you'll be doing the dishes at every meal for the rest of the week."

Now Richie was the one frowning. "Ah, man. That really bites," he grumbled, causing his father's face to darken further. The teenager beat a hasty retreat back to the blanket without another word of protest.

Silently wondering if Immortals could develop frown lines, Duncan felt a hand on his arm and looked over into his wife's understanding eyes. "He's testing boundaries, Duncan. Part of him is grown, but part of him is still a child and he doesn't know which world he belongs in. I remember going through something similar at his age. He'll outgrow it."

"You've been telling me how he'll outgrow this reckless streak of his for seven years, Tessa," he reminded her, smiling wryly.

"Yes, well, I'm sure he will...someday."

"Hey, Mom, are you gonna eat this last piece of chicken?" Richie called out, already over his temporary pout.

"I suppose you'll die from starvation if I say yes," she retorted, letting Duncan escort her back to their picnic.

"Well..."

Tessa laughed at the hopeful face he turned up to her. "You can have it, but you'd better hurry and finish if you and your father want to meander. It's starting to cloud up and I don't wish to swim back to town."

"Meander?" Richie snickered. "Hey, no problem." He finished off the chicken leg in three bites. "I'm through. So where are we going to 'meander' to, Dad?" he asked, freezing in the process of wiping his hands on his jeans when his mother sent him a withering glare. He wisely opted for the napkin instead.

"You wanted to see the moor, didn't you?"

"Oh, yeah, cool. Okay, let's go," he said, jumping to his feet enthusiastically.

"Tessa?" Duncan enquired, climbing to his feet again.

"You two go," she said, waving them off. "I'm going to gather everything up and enjoy what's left of the sunshine." She eyed the clouds on the horizon distrustfully. "Don't be too long."

Richie rushed ahead half the time like a hyperactive puppy, running back to urge his father to move faster until Duncan threatened to jerk a knot in his tail if he didn't calm down. Richie wasn't quite sure what that meant-his father was full of phrases that confounded him on occasion-but the tone with which it was delivered was enough to settle him down considerably and he fell into step beside the Immortal, trying to match his longer strides-much as he had as a boy.

So intent was he on studying his father's gait, he didn't realize they had reached their destination until Duncan stopped short. Richie looked around then, *really* looked for the first time at this place that his father had spun tales around, making the battle come to life for a young boy who had never been farther than the end of town.

"This is it?" he asked tentatively, gazing out over the expanse of rolling hillside.

Duncan took a deep breath and swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Yes. This is it. Culloden Moor," he responded, his voice thick with emotion, the echoes of long-dead voices sounding in his ears.

They stood there together for some time, two lone figures silently taking comfort in each other's company as the wind blew in eerie silence, shifting the wild grasses to and fro.

"I'm sorry, Dad."

A small smile crossed Duncan's lips as he regarded his son. "Sorry for what?"

"That you lost so many friends here. That you saw so much suffering afterwards." The young man's face was very solemn, with no sign of his normal irrepressible exuberance.

Just standing at the site of that long-ago battle had touched Duncan deeply. That it had touched Richie as well was a testament to the boy's character, he thought.

Duncan draped an arm across the teenager's shoulders and pulled him up to his side. "You're a good lad. Have I told you that?"

Richie gave a rueful laugh. "Not recently."

Duncan's smile widened. "I'll rephrase it then. You're not always good, but you've a good heart and you're your mother's pride and joy."

"Just Mom's, huh?" Richie teased, though there was a hint of uncertainty lurking just below the surface. After all, he and his father did bump heads on occasion.

"Well," Duncan hedged, then relented at the look on the boy's face, slipping easily into his brogue. "I like ye just a wee bit, I suppose."

The redhead issued a loud snort. "Gee, thanks."

Duncan laughed easily and landed a kiss on the top of his son's unruly curls.

"Dad!" Richie protested, looking around to see if anyone had witnessed this indignity, before glowering up at the Scot.

Duncan's answer was to shift his arm from the boy's shoulders to his neck, putting him in a head-lock and ruffling his hair mercilessly before turning serious once more. "What say we head back? Or would you like to wander around a little more?"

Richie took another long look at the tableau surrounding them and shook his head. "Let's go back, Dad. I kind of feel like we should be with Mom right now. She might need a hug or something," he added magnanimously, not fooling his father in the least.

"Yeah, *she* might. And there may just be a piece of pie in that picnic basket with your name on it."

Richie eyes lit up at that. "Sounds like a plan."

"And then you can apologize to your mother for scaring her earlier," Duncan added, matter-of-factly.

"Um, yeah," the youth agreed ruefully, before an infectious grin spread over his face. "If I do, does that mean I don't have to do the dishes the rest of the week?"

Duncan found himself smiling just as brightly in response. "No, it doesn't. The punishment stands, Sport."

"Bummer," Richie mumbled, sighing dramatically as they started back.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tessa insisted on fixing dinner for Dougal that evening after their return, though she and Duncan were still pleasantly full from their outing and didn't plan to do more than enjoy a cup of tea in front of the fireplace. Richie, on the other hand, joined the jovial Scot at the table, eager to hear tales of his father's younger years, and tenaciously trying to finagle yet another piece of pie out of his mother, despite having eaten two slices earlier.

Dougal was more than happy to oblige the boy with tales of derring-do, both real and, Tessa suspected from the bemused look on her husband's face, imagined. One such tale had the pair of Scots roving the Highlands searching for game, yet defeating their own efforts by singing at the top of their lungs and, in so doing, scaring away every living creature in the near vicinity.

Richie was nearly rolling on the floor by the end of the story, imagining Dougal and his father-who fancied he could sing, though both his wife and son had told him otherwise several times-sending some poor Irish traveler who had heard their boisterous commotion, scurrying into a local pub, warning everyone present that there were banshees in the woods and that they should lock their doors and shutters to keep the fiendish creatures out.

As if the story itself weren't enough to bring tears of laughter to both Richie and Tessa's eyes, the pair of Scots had gone on to give an impromptu rendition of "Marezy Dotes and Doezy Dotes" that sent their audience into giggling fits.

It was the end to a perfect day, a day that each would look back on in those days that followed, with an unspoken yearning to recapture that moment in time.

~~~~~~~~~~

Their plans to visit Inverness Castle the following afternoon were put aside so that Duncan could give his stamp of approval to the party hall and help Dougal make some last minute choices in authentic decorations-a task that had fallen to the university's history department-therefore, to Dougal, as its head.

Tessa found herself scrambling to put together several authentic Scottish dishes to take along to the affair, though she drew the line at haggis or sweetbreads, despite Duncan's less-than-subtle hints. Richie took one look at the ingredients and turned a lovely shade of gray, spurring her to add something a bit more familiar to the list-a red velvet cake. Not his favorite double chocolate with chocolate frosting, perhaps, but always a crowd pleaser.

Lacking a number of the needed ingredients for her planned menu, she decided to send Richie off to town with his father to track them down, which would serve the dual purpose of getting the teenager out from under foot and give him an outlet for his, at times, overwhelming energies.

The tailor had phoned in the midst of all this to announce that the refurbished tartans were ready, adding another item to the growing list of errands.

Duncan planned to meet Dougal in town, head over to the hall, then back to the university to lend a hand any way he could. This left Richie as the designated shopper-not the youth's favorite afternoon activity, but one he was quite familiar with after having spent nearly half of his life with Tessa Noel MacLeod-shopper extraordinaire- as his mother.

Father and son left the Frenchwoman to her cooking preparations; setting out together on their appointed tasks with her last minute admonishment "Don't dawdle the day away" ringing in their ears.

Just as on the afternoon before, clouds filled the sky, their promise of rain as yet unfulfilled, their mere presence enough to send the locals scurrying to and fro with many an upwards glance to the heavens.

Duncan checked Richie's watch as he and the boy arrived at Dougal's chosen rendezvous spot, finding that they had made good time. "Dougal should be here any minute. Do you think you can find the tailor's shop, pick up the things on your mom's list, and make it home without any trouble?"

"Sure, Dad. No problem. I might even beat you back."

"This isn't a race, Richie. Just find everything on that list and make it back without a major incident, and I'll be happy."

The teenager shook his head tolerantly and pocketed the scrap of paper that contained his list of errands. "You worry too much, Dad."

Duncan snorted and squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Maybe. Just humor me, all right?"

"Sure...and don't *you* get into any trouble while I'm not around to protect you," Richie added with an impish grin.

"I'll try," Duncan promised, lips twitching.

"'Kay. I'll catch ya later."

Richie's minute buzz had barely receded when Duncan felt the presence of a full-fledged Immortal. He smiled, anticipating the arrival of their host, but several moments passed while the crowd surged around him, and still his friend did not appear.

Duncan found his hand dipping inside his overcoat to slide comfortingly around the hilt of his katana as the sensation increased, and his uneasiness with it. He should have been able to see Dougal by now; he towered over most of the populace, but still there was no sign of him. The feeling seemed to ebb slowly, then grow once more, swinging him around to the rear. He spotted MacPherson immediately this time, grinning broadly and waving one large hand in greeting as he wove through the crowded square.

"MacLeod!"

Duncan gave a half-hearted wave in response and stood rooted to the spot as the other man closed the distance.

"I didna mean to keep ye waiting; the meeting ran long and I couldna get away."

"No problem," Duncan said distractedly, casting glances at the passersby, brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Duncan?"

He dragged his attention back to the man standing before him, wearing a chagrined smile at the concerned look on his friend's face. "Sorry. What were you saying?" He listened with half an ear after that, trying to replay the scene in his mind. Was it the number of people in the crowd that had confused him? Richie leaving and Dougal arriving that did it? Whatever the reason, he didn't like it...he didn't like it at all.

Richie maneuvered through the throng of shoppers with an expertise born of living his whole life in a large city. His mother claimed that men never asked for directions, but he had proven her wrong this afternoon by asking, not once, but twice, to be pointed in the right direction when he had gotten turned around by the unfamiliar street names. Many of the native Invernessans-as Richie had playfully termed them-had a kind word and a smile for the friendly young American, as fascinated with his speech and mannerisms as he was with theirs.

The teenager would have readily admitted that at least part of his problem of navigation that day had to do with the fact that he was far more interested in seeing the sights than in steering a straight course. The most fascinating sight he'd seen so far stood about five feet, five inches tall, with raven-black hair, startlingly blue eyes, appeared to be in the neighborhood of eighteen years of age-and smiled winningly in his direction.

Unfortunately for him, the young lady in question was not unchaperoned, and was moving in the opposite direction with her escort at a good clip, oblivious to having grabbed Richie's rapt attention.

More interested in the passing scenery than the path in front of him, he innocently barreled into a stationery object that, though considerably larger than himself, was unprepared for the unexpected collision and wound up sprawled in the street at the teenager's feet.

"Oh, geez, I'm sorry," Richie mumbled, instantly forgetting about the lady fair, and taking in the well dressed gentleman's disheveled appearance with a grimace-already dreading the lecture he was sure to receive about watching where he was going. He leaned down to offer the man a hand up and was surprised to find him smiling.

"Not to worry, my boy. No harm done," the stranger replied graciously, brushing off his overcoat and slicking back his dark blond hair with one eye on the teenager. "Bartholomew Campbell," he said, extending his hand in the time honored greeting.

Richie smiled gratefully, shaking the proffered hand with a firm grip, as his father had taught him. "Richard MacLeod...uh, Richie's good."

"MacLeod? You don't sound like a native. I don't detect any Scots in your accent."

"Me?" Richie laughed easily at that. "Nah, I'm American right down to my toes. My dad's Scottish, though. That's kind of why we're here-checking out his old stomping grounds."

"Your first trip to the Highlands?"

"Yeah. First time for me and my mother both. Dad's been meaning to bring us here for a long time now, but you know how it is with work and school and everything?"

"Yes, finding time for life's little pleasures can be a job in itself," Campbell agreed, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But, surely you're not still in school. You must be twenty-two or twenty-three, at the very least."

"Who me?" Richie retorted with a startled squeak. No one had ever mistaken him for being older; with his baby face the reverse was generally the case. "No, I'm nineteen."

"I never would have guessed. You carry yourself with a maturity one doesn't often find in teenagers."

Richie laughed again. "I wish you'd repeat that to my dad."

"Ah, the generation gap. You're not the first to suffer from it, my boy."

"Generation gap, huh?" Richie repeated with a muffled snort. "You don't know the half of it. Generation Grand Canyon is more like it."

"Your father is an older man?"

"Um...no, not really," Richie hedged, realizing he was on dangerous ground here. "He just doesn't remember what it was like to be my age, I guess."

"I quite understand."

"Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy. I'm really lucky to have him and Mom," Richie felt compelled to add.

"An extremely mature attitude," Campbell complimented him.

"Yeah, well," Richie could feel a blush rising, "it's the truth." He cast around for a new topic of conversation. "Campbell's one of the old clan names. My dad taught me a little bit about that kind of stuff, but you don't sound like most of the Scots I've met."

"Astute, as well. No, I am most definitely not Scottish. How is it you put it?...I am English 'right down to my toes'. I'm here researching some Celtic writings discovered in caves outside the city."

"Really? Man, I'd love to see that," Richie said with boyish candor.

"Well, if you have an interest in that area, perhaps we can work something out."

"You mean it?"

"I do. I'm sure I can work a tour into my schedule some afternoon."

"Wow, that'd be great. Really great." Richie's eyes were bright with barely-suppressed enthusiasm.

"Of course we should keep it between the two of us. I can't risk anyone encroaching on my work or it becoming a tourist attraction," he pointed out reasonably.

"Right. Not a word," Richie promised, making a zipping motion across his mouth. "My lips are sealed."

"Very good. I'll be in touch when the opportunity presents itself, then."

"Cool. I'm staying at the MacPherson home on the southwest side of the city, #203 Rosewood Lane. I don't know the phone number, but I can draw you a map, if you like."

"No, no, that won't be necessary. I'm familiar with the area. I'm sure I'll be able to find you again without difficulty."

"Great. Look, I'd better get going. I'm on an errand and they'll be wondering what's keeping me."

"Of course. It was a pleasure meeting you, Richie *MacLeod*," Campbell said, stressing the last name and offering his hand once more. "I'll see you soon."

"Can't wait." A firm handshake, a quick smile, and Richie joined the rabble about them once more, weaving agilely through the throng of pedestrians.

Campbell smiled, himself, as Richie cast him a parting wave before disappearing around the corner of a tall building-a smile that had passersby giving him a wide berth.

That had been all too easy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Richie breezed through the kitchen entry with his booty-several bags of groceries and a wrapped parcel from the tailor's-all of which he set on the table. "I'm back!" he shouted to the house at large.

"So I noticed," Tessa said dryly, as she entered the room, moving immediately to the assorted bags and extracting the perishables.

"Sorry I was so long. I bumped into someone in town...literally."

"I hope you apologized."

"Yeah, and he was pretty cool about it. English guy. Thought I was Scottish at first," he related proudly.

"A hearing-impaired English guy," Duncan teased, snatching up a carrot before Tessa could swat his hand away, and showing none of the relief he felt that his son was home, and safe.

"Yeah, well, he did say I looked much older than I am, too," Richie informed them.

"How sad, near-sighted, to boot," Duncan murmured with mock sympathy. He reached out to ruffle the teenager's hair when Richie made a sour face at this observation and received a light punch to the stomach for his troubles. So started an impromptu wrestling match that moved into the living room where it segued into a three-way pillow fight when Tessa-exasperated by their inattention to her pleas to 'stop that this instant'-lobbed one well-stuffed projectile at the back of her husband's head.

They were all laughing and breathless when Dougal walked through the front door some time later. The large Scot raised both eyebrows at the threesome sitting on his living room floor amid several pillows and sofa cushions, muttered something about overgrown children, and moved off in the direction of his study, chuckling all the way.

Tessa put the room to rights, then hustled her less-than-thrilled teenage son upstairs to try on his kilt. She slipped into her own long skirt and tartan-patterned bonnet and awaited him in the foyer, calling him several times before he joined her, trudging down the stairs as if going to his doom.

"I look like a dork," he moaned.

"You most certainly do *not*," Tessa informed him curtly. "You've seen your father in a kilt, does he look like a dork?"

"Well...no, but he's Scottish."

"Scottish or not, you look very handsome just now."

"You have to say that, you're my mother."

"Well then, we'll just get someone else's opinion," she declared, dragging him toward the front door.

"NO. Okay, okay," Richie cried, "I don't look like a dork."

"And? What else?" Tessa demanded, arms crossed.

Richie blew the air out of his mouth in surrender. "I look very handsome," he droned obediently.

A brilliant smile met his words. "You see? I knew you would like it."

Richie accepted defeat with a crooked grin. "You fight dirty, Mom."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she sniffed, though the mischievous light in her eyes gave her away. She planted a kiss on his forehead and turned him toward the stairs. "Go take that off and put it away so that it won't have any wrinkles. Better yet, bring it to me," she amended. "I don't want it to disappear mysteriously before the party tomorrow night."

Richie groaned audibly. Sometimes his parents seemed to read his mind.

She landed a firm swat to his kilted posterior as he started the climb, earning an indignant "Mom!" before he hastened his ascent, eager to be in pants once more.

With the rest of her needed ingredients safely in hand, Tessa dove back into her food preparations with a vengeance. Assorted pots and pans littered the spacious kitchen's countertops, table and stove as she moved from one dish to another, humming happily and enlisting the help of whichever unwary male happened to wander too close to her domain. Duncan, Dougal and Richie all found themselves drafted for the cause at some point over the next few hours, either standing elbow-deep in soapy water scrubbing dirty cookware, or pounding away at floured dough on the countertop, while the Frenchwoman issued commands right and left. This was all accepted with general good grace and one near territorial dispute when two large men, one rambunctious teenager and a blonde with an artist's eye for perfection became too much for one kitchen to withstand.

Duncan and Dougal were banned from the room after that and sent in search of a carry-out dinner while she and Richie did their best to store everything in the refrigerator and put the room to rights.

This was one of those rare instances where the redhead would have preferred to be saddled with the shopping duty.

The mighty hunters returned triumphant a mere twenty minutes later, with an assortment of hot dishes for the group's delectation.

Richie eyed the Shepherd's Pie suspiciously at first, then dug in like a man long starved when he discovered it was simply meat and potatoes. He finished off the last crumbs on his plate with a contented sigh and gazed woefully at the shortbread until the others finished their own meals.

After another flurry of dish washing, Dougal adjourned to his study to grade some papers he'd been neglecting and Duncan headed out to the enclosed back yard to perform a few katas. Tessa was content to watch him go through the smooth movements for a while, but moved back inside when the night air grew a little too cool for her tastes-Duncan seemed immune to its bite-and settled herself on the couch with a book of poetry by Burns.

Richie took off for parts unknown shortly thereafter, breezing through the living room with a rapid-fire "Hi, Mom, bye, Mom, gonna go out for a while, won't be long, catch ya later."

Tessa managed her own "Don't be late!" before the door closed with a muffled slam, leaving her gaping after him.

Duncan came back inside an hour later and disappeared into the upstairs shower where his deep baritone rendition of an aria from La Traviata had his wife wincing in sympathy for the mangled score, and retreating to the kitchen to bake the last item on her list.

The layers of the red velvet cake were already cooling on their racks when Duncan wandered into the kitchen, sniffing the air and wearing an appreciative smile. "Mmm, something smells good."

"Just you never mind. This is for the party," she scolded, hovering over the bowl of icing protectively.

"Where's Richie? It's not like him to stay shut up in his room when there's food around."

"He's not in his room. He went out for a while."

Duncan's smile froze on his face. "What?"

"He went out. He said he wouldn't be long."

"Where did he go?"

"He didn't say," she said, turning to study him quizzically. "Why, did you need him for something?"

"What?" Duncan murmured distractedly. "No, I didn't need...No." He worked a sudden kink out of his neck and smiled reassuringly at her puzzled frown. "I didn't realize he'd made friends here already."

She smiled at that and turned back to icing the cake. "You know Richie, he never met a stranger."

"That's true. He's probably charmed some girl into going for a moonlight stroll with him," he said, as much for own his peace of mind as hers. Feeling slightly better, he dipped a finger into the butter-creme mixture and got his hand rapped smartly for his trouble.

"Stop that. You're as bad as Richie."

The Scot harrumfed at that. "If Richie were here he'd have wrestled that bowl away from you by now, and you begrudge your lord and master a measly little taste," he muttered, feigning hurt.

"My lord and master?" Tessa repeated, turning to face him with hands on hips, one eyebrow raised menacingly.

"What I meant to say was devoted servant and ardent lover," he corrected with a wicked smile, moving up behind her and wrapping his arms about her.

"Much better," she purred, leaning back against his broad chest and running her hands up and down his muscled arms. She sighed as his head dipped forward to kiss her sensitive nape.

"Duncan...the cake..." she said breathlessly, as his advances grew bolder.

"The cake can wait," he murmured in her ear.

She turned in his arms, wrapping her own around his neck and leaning in to kiss him eagerly.

"There ye are. I wondered where everyone had got te," Dougal blustered, coming to an abrupt halt as he took in the couple's somewhat disheveled appearance. "I didna interrupt anything, did I?" he asked belatedly, lips twitching as Duncan turned to scowl at him.

"Yes, you d—"

"No, of course not," Tessa quickly censored, giving her husband a meaningful glance and smoothing back a few loose strands from her coiffure. "Duncan and I were just talking. And...I have a cake to frost," she added, turning back to her chore with all the dignity she could muster.

"I see," Dougal said, stifling his amusement for her sake. "I just wanted te warn ye both that I've a phone call coming in from Glasgow. If ye were planning on turning in early I didna want it te wake ye."

"We'll be up until Richie comes home," Duncan informed him, feeling a twinge that signaled the return of his earlier worries.

"So the wee scamp's gone out, has he? I hope he doesna forget that Inverness is a mite larger than your Seacouver, and stray too far."

"Richie's very self-reliant," Tessa remarked, unconcerned. "He could find his way around Paris in a short time, though he wasn't fluent in French-outside of what I'd taught him myself. At least here there's no language barrier."

"Well, the laddie doesna strike me as shy, I'm sure he'll have no trouble finding his way. I'll leave ye te whatever it was ye were doing and get back te my papers." This said with a grin in Duncan's direction.

Dougal's interruption had effectively destroyed whatever romantic mood the couple had managed to conjure up. Leaving Tessa to her cake decorating, Duncan retired to the living room and tried to immerse himself in her abandoned book of poetry. He gave that up after rereading the same verse three times and tossed it aside in favor of the now rather crumpled newspaper, though he was having just as much trouble concentrating on the black print-his eyes strayed to the grandfather clock in the corner again and again.

Richie's curfew at home in Seacouver was midnight, his curfew when they traveled abroad-eleven. He had tried to argue his way around that during most of their stay in France-with absolutely no luck. Evidently figuring he had nothing to lose, he had debated the issue again upon arriving in Scotland-after all he was nineteen now, not eighteen, and that should be worth at least another hour. Unfortunately for him, neither of his parents saw the logic in that and the eleven o'clock curfew stood.

Duncan glanced up at the clock...again...10:45. He took some consolation in the fact that his son would be home shortly, and tried to turn his attention back to the passages in front of him, but his thoughts continued to stray.

He found himself remembering a family outing in Seacouver Park a week or so after Tessa's last birthday. He had sensed another Immortal and spied a lone figure leaning against a tree across the clearing. Dressed all in black right down to the dark sunglasses, he vaguely resembled an old friend-Gregor Powers. Duncan waited for him to come forward, but something in their happy family scene seemed to be keeping the man at bay. When Duncan decided to take the bull by the horns and started toward him, he bolted, making the Scot wonder if it had been Gregor, after all.

A week later that question had been put to rest. The Arts section of the Seacouver Star had announced an exhibition showcasing the photographic works of Greg Powers and another artist whose name sparked memories...Linda Plager. Duncan was inordinately pleased that her work had become popular and he nearly went to the show himself. Something about that image of Gregor leaning against a tree watching his family had made him think better of it. It had also added new motivation for leaving Seacouver as soon as possible, and he had kept a close eye on both his wife and son in the interim.

He was quite sure that Powers wouldn't have followed them half-way around the globe, and maybe he had been mistaken in the square earlier that day and it had been Dougal he had sensed all along. Just because he'd never made that mistake before didn't mean that it couldn't happen. Still, when Richie got home he was going to make a point of telling him that he wasn't to roam about Inverness without their knowing where he was at all times. After all, it wasn't the boy's old stomping grounds and anything could happen. He turned his attention back to the newspaper after telling himself that his concern had nothing to do with The Game, nothing at all.

Richie's curfew came and went, but the teenager failed to put in an appearance, increasing his father's level of anxiety to the point where he was unable to hide it from his wife any longer. He tried to brush off his bout of pacing and clock-watching as just normal parental ire-that Richie knew he had a curfew and knew better than to stay out past it without calling, but he gave up on that tack after a few minutes.

"I'm going to head into town and have a look around," he announced abruptly, snatching up his overcoat and turning toward the door.

"Duncan, there's something you're not telling me," Tessa said accusingly, as he moved to pass her. "Why are you so upset? Richie's missed his curfew at home more times than I can count, but you were never this eager to go out and search for him."

"Tessa, I..." He trailed off, debating whether to admit that he was worried about their son's safety. He had no solid reasoning for his fears...none at all, and to upset her unnecessarily was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. Being married to an Immortal was enough to put gray hairs on her lovely head as it was, without frightening her without cause. The decision made, he gave her a reassuring smile and pulled her close.

"I'm sure he's fine. He probably just forgot the address or lost his way in the dark, but I'd feel better-and I think you would, too-if I tracked him down and brought him home before he gets into any mischief."

The corners of Tessa's mouth turned up in a grudging smile. "He is rather good at that," she admitted.

A quick peck on the cheek and the Scot released her, adjusting the katana within the folds of his coat. "He certainly is. Too good." He gave her arm a squeeze and made for the door. "He's probably on his way home right now. I'll be back before you know it," he promised, stepping out into the brisk night air, and making a silent vow to himself that, if Richie *was* all right, he was personally going to kill him.

Without Duncan there to pace the floors for her, Tessa found her own anxiety level climbing. She contemplated going to Dougal for moral support, but was loath to interrupt his business call and risk being labeled-at least in her own mind-a silly female. Damn Duncan, anyway. She hadn't been worried in the least until he had started to check the clock every few minutes, and now she knew she would get no rest at all until they were both safely home again.

"Men!" she railed at the empty room. If she had been a nail-biter she would have started long before now, but what she wouldn't have given for a cigarette.

Ten minutes stretched into twenty, then forty, with still no sign of either her husband or son. Tessa was about to storm into the study and demand that Dougal drive her around until they found them, had actually started in that direction, when a solid knock on the door had her racing to what she was sure was bad news.

She flung the door open to find her son in the grips of a tall, sable-haired gentleman, who dwarfed the teenager in size.

"Good evening, Madam. I hate to be a bother but, would this, by any chance, belong to you?"

"Mom!" Richie cried ebulliently before she could respond, and grabbed a startled Tessa around the waist, landing a loud and somewhat sloppy kiss on her cheek. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"Richie, what on Earth!" Tessa drew back from her son and took a good look at him. "You're drunk," she announced, eyes wide.

"Is this the first time?" The inquiry came from the, as yet, unidentified stranger, and it didn't sit well with the Frenchwoman.

"Of course it's the first time. He's barely nineteen years old," she informed him, seething. "The legal age is twenty-one."

"Not in Scotland, I'm afraid."

"Not in Scotland," Richie parroted gleefully, hanging onto his mother's arm for balance. "I *love* Scotland!"

"Richie, hush."

"Sshhhhhh," Richie hissed loudly with a finger to his lips.

"And where have you been?" she asked, aware that she wasn't likely to receive a coherent reply.

"I found him wandering along the road singing quite loudly. I'm afraid I didn't recognize the melody-something to do with mares and does eating oats? Of course, I could be mistaken."

Tessa sighed, images of strangling Duncan and Dougal swirling in her head.

"I remembered a mention of MacPherson housing friends from The States and took a chance that he belonged here."

"I suppose I should thank you for bringing him home, Mr..." Tessa said, remembering her manners.

"Henderson," he supplied, with an inclination of the head. "I work with Dougal on occasion and I'm only too glad I could be of assistance. The boy seemed to be a little the worse for drink," he explained, smiling benevolently in Richie's direction. "Well, you have your hands full, so I'll say goodnight."

"Goodnight, and thank you, again," Tessa returned distractedly, struggling to contain her son.

"Goodnight? But it's early!" Richie exclaimed as Tessa closed the door. "Come on, Mom, dance with me."

"Young man, you just wait 'til your father gets home," she scolded, somewhat ineffectually as Richie seemed determined to flit about to music only he could hear.

"Dad wants to dance with me?" he asked in confusion, scrunching his face up briefly before throwing his arms out wide. "O-kay," he sing-songed. "We'll all dance."

"What's going on? Who was that who just drove off?"

While trying to restrain the happily swaying teenager, Tessa pivoted in place to find Duncan standing in the doorway that their good Samaritan had recently vacated, his eyes scanning them both anxiously. She barely got out an explanation before Richie launched himself at his father, oblivious to the man's grim expression in his own current state of euphoria.

"Dad! How are ya, Dad?"

Duncan caught the teen before they collided, his eyes widening as the alcohol fumes nearly overwhelmed him. "Richie, what have you been drinking?" he demanded, pulling one of the boy's eyelids back to check for toxicity.

"Scotch, of course," Richie proclaimed, laughing so hard at his little joke that he would have toppled over if not for his father's restraining hands.

Duncan's face darkened considerably at this, to his son's obvious amusement.

"Uh-oh, someone's not wearing their happy face," he chided, patting his father's cheek playfully.

Duncan growled deep in his throat before grabbing his errant son by the collar and spinning him around toward the stairs.

"Duncan, what are you going to do?" Tessa called after them with a mixture of weariness and relief.

"I'm going to clean him up and put him to bed before I do him bodily harm," he threw back over his shoulder, dragging the mildly protesting teenager up the stairs with an alacrity that left the blonde staring after them wearing a bemused expression.

It was a much more subdued young man who slowly made his way to the kitchen the next morning. Richie threw one hand up to shield his sensitive eyes from the sunlight pouring through the windows and slumped down into the nearest chair, dropping his aching head down onto folded arms.

"Ohhhhhh, somebody, please kill me," he moaned into the table top.

"I'm afraid you won't be getting off that easily," a familiar voice intoned ominously from above him.

Richie squinted up into the dark countenance of Duncan MacLeod before groaning and dropping his head back onto his arms. "Ooooh, man."

Thirty minutes and one of Duncan's hangover cures later, Richie stood before his parents, watching his father warily as the Scot paced from one end of the living room to the other while Tessa focused all her attention on her somewhat bedraggled son.

"What were you thinking, Richie?"

"All I did was take in a little of the local flavor," Richie said in his own defense.

"All you did was take in a pint of Scotch," Duncan corrected, frowning darkly in the teenager's direction.

"Okay, I had a few drinks, but nobody got hurt or anything. No harm, no foul. Do we have to make a federal case out of this?" the youth pleaded, rubbing at one throbbing temple.

"I do not know about this 'federal case', but I am not amused by your behavior," Tessa informed him with a withering glare.

"But, I'm nineteen."

"Exactly," Duncan said, stopping in mid-pace to tower over the redhead. "You're nineteen, not twenty-one. You are *not* old enough or mature enough to drink without supervision. You proved that last night."

"Okay," Richie relented, looking decidedly uncomfortable as he gazed up into his father's forbidding expression. "I didn't plan on getting drunk or anything, and I didn't mean to be so much trouble. I'm sorry...really."

Tessa's expression softened at that and she reached out to lift a stray curl from his forehead. "You are not 'so much trouble', Petit. Your father and I love you very much and we don't want anything to happen to you because you are not thinking clearly." Duncan's obvious throat-clearing beside her had her hastily adding in a stern voice, "And an apology is not going to be sufficient."

"I really think feeling like my head is going to explode any minute is punishment enough," Richie said hopefully, correctly surmising the direction the conversation was taking.

"That, and being grounded for two weeks," Duncan returned dryly.

"Two weeks!" Richie cried, groaning as his head protested the volume. "You can't ground me for two weeks for doing something that was perfectly legal."

"Legal or not, you know the rule about drinking when we travel. We went over it often enough in France," Duncan reminded him.

Richie plastered his most winning grin on his face. "Come on, Dad, you know what they say—when in Rome..."

Duncan was not impressed. "I don't give a bloody damn what 'they' say...and we're not *in* Rome."

"Oh, come on. Can't you guys just forget it this one time? You know, chalk it up to a learning experience, or something?"

"Two weeks, Richie. That's it. End of conversation," he added as the teenager opened his mouth to argue further. "I told Dougal I'd meet him at the university at ten and I'm already late," Duncan informed Tessa, gathering up his coat and sword. "I'll probably have lunch in town, but I'll get back as soon as possible." A quick peck on her cheek, a last stern look for his son and he swept out of the front door, slamming it behind him.

Richie stood rooted in place, staring daggers at the closed portal, and Tessa wondered absently what horrible fate he was wishing upon his father.

The teenager turned then and transferred the glare briefly to her before stalking off in the direction of his room. Moments later, yet another door slammed.

A little over an hour later, Richie poked his head out of his room, sniffed the air, and made a beeline for the kitchen

"I thought the smell of food might lure you out," Tessa teased as he sauntered in. She watched as he dropped into the nearest chair, his elbows on the table, chin resting in the palm of one hand as he gazed up at her forlornly.

"That's not going to work, you know."

"What?" he asked, all innocence.

"That face. It's not going to work this time. Your father and I discussed this at length last night and—"

"You mean Dad yelled and you listened," Richie cut in.

"Actually, after you lost the contents of your stomach on the hallway carpet around two a.m. I believe I did most of the yelling," Tessa corrected.

"Um, yeah. Sorry about that," Richie said sheepishly.

"I know," she murmured, patting his cheek and placing a platter of sliced cheese and hot bread on the table.

Richie rose and pulled a chair out for her, then took his seat again, toying with a piece of bread distractedly. "So...what, I came all the way to Scotland to be grounded? Geez, I could have done that at home," he griped, picking up where he had left off earlier.

"Richie, do you love your father?"

"Oh, Mom."

At five feet-ten, Tessa was only an inch taller than her son, but she put that inch to good use, sitting up ramrod-straight in her chair and frowning down at him.

"Answer the question, please," she said imperiously.

Richie sighed dramatically in the face of her maternal interrogation.

"You know I do, but—"

"Then you should try to respect his judgement." Tessa knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that they were falling on deaf ears but, ever since becoming a parent, those trite platitudes seemed to drip from her lips more and more.

"I'm nineteen, you know. Legally he can't tell me what to do," Richie announced with false bravado.

"Would you like to tell *him* that?" Tessa asked sweetly.

Richie's eyes widened comically. "Mom, I'm too young to die."

"Too young, too old...really, Petit, you are going to have to make up your mind," she quipped, earning a scowl from the teenager. She decided to try another tack. "Richie, you went out without telling us where you were going. You entered a pub and drank until you could barely stand. A complete stranger had to bring you home because you were wandering aimlessly in the street."

"I know all that, but, come on, Mom, two weeks! That's half of our vacation."

"Your father's a little upset right now." She ignored the rude noise Richie made at that. "He'll calm down in a day or two and I'll talk to him about it again. I have a feeling he'll reduce the sentence, but, for right now, you'll just have to grin and bear it."

"Terrific," he muttered sullenly. "Mom, when you look at me, what do you see?"

Richie sounded uncharacteristically serious all of a sudden, and Tessa tried to respond in kind. "I see a very attractive young man...who needs a haircut." She couldn't help throwing that last in.

Richie gave her a small smile. "So how come when Dad looks at me he still sees a little kid?"

Tessa smiled wistfully at that observation. It wasn't quite true, but she knew Duncan could be terribly overprotective of both her and their son. "Well, I don't suppose nineteen seems very old to a man who's over four hundred."

"Mom, a *hundred* and nineteen doesn't seem old to him. I can just see it. There I am, seventy years old, grandkids running all over the place, and Dad walks in-looking just the same as he does now-and sends me to my room for staying out past my curfew."

"Richie, don't be silly," Tessa admonished. "When you're seventy you won't want to be out that late. You'll need your rest."

"Oh, ha-ha. Very funny, Mom. Come on, face it. When Dad gets his Scottish back up, no one can change his mind, even when he's being a total hard-ass."

Tessa raised an eyebrow at her son's language and studied him in silence for a moment.

"Petit, do you remember when you and your father and I went up to the cabin when you were fourteen?" she asked at length.

"Yeah, I remember."

Tessa nodded and continued. "You disappeared early the second day and your father and I searched frantically for hours, trying to find some sign of you. It was your father who found you finally, after rushing pell-mell toward a ravine that you had been told in no uncertain terms to stay away from, as if he knew without a doubt that's where you were."

Richie flushed guiltily even now at the memory.

"You were far enough down that we couldn't reach you, and you couldn't climb out on your own. It took your father nearly an hour to fashion a pulley to lower himself down and pull you out. I swear that was the worst day of my life. The hours just seemed to stretch on and on," she admitted, frowning as that feeling of helplessness surfaced again for an instant, then giving herself a mental shake. "You were fine overall, other than a few bumps and bruises, but you had a nasty cut on your leg."

"Yeah, still have the scar," Richie piped in.

"And your father picked you up and carried you all the way back to the cabin."

Richie remained silent this time.

"And while I cleaned the cut, what did your father do?"

"He paced and yelled. Told me he was going to give me a hiding I'd never forget," Richie happily supplied, thinking to validate his argument.

"Mmm hmm," Tessa murmured, unfazed. "And did he?"

"No," Richie admitted grudgingly.

"What did he do?" she prompted.

Richie fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat and studied the table top. "He cried," he mumbled.

"What was that?"

Richie sighed and lifted his gaze to her face. "He hugged me and cried," he repeated, frowning at the turn the conversation had taken.

"Yes. He cried...because his son wasn't lying at the bottom of a ravine with a broken neck. Being a total hard-ass, perhaps?"

"Yeah, well he got over it," Richie grumbled. "He gave me a bunch of extra chores to do, and made me get up every morning at six a.m. to go running with him. And when we got back to Seacouver, he grounded me for three weeks."

"All highly undeserved, of course."

"Well," Richie hedged, then a small, rueful grin crossed his lips. "Maybe I deserved it. Some of it, anyway," he was quick to add.

"Do you really think so?" Tessa goaded, causing his grin to bloom into a full-fledged smile.

"Okay, Mom," he conceded, "Dad's a prince. He's right and I'm wrong. So what else is new?"

"Richie, your father isn't always right, as you well know. And you're not always right. There have been rare occasions when even I have made mistakes." The teen snorted loudly at that. "But if you're honest with yourself, you'll have to admit that you set yourself up to be punished this time. You know very well that you are not permitted to drink."

"Mom, I'm—"

"Nineteen," they finished together. "Richie, if I hear that one more time, I won't be responsible for my actions," Tessa announced, at her limit.

Richie cocked an eyebrow up at her. "Gonna get tough, huh? Slap me around a little, maybe?" he teased, climbing to his feet and taking on a boxer's stance. "Okay, come on. Personally I think I can take ya," he said, bobbing and weaving on the balls of his feet, fists in front of his face.

Tessa laughed, as she always did at his antics. "Don't be ridiculous, I might break a nail."

"What was I thinking?" he gasped in mock horror. "And me without a tourniquet."

Tessa rose to her feet, laughing still, and wrapped him in a warm hug. "You're very precious to your father and me," she whispered into his ear, before pushing him back to arm's length and brushing a stray curl out of his face. "And you're still grounded," she added, chucking him under the chin.

"Well, one good thing," he said aloud as she moved away to remove the soup from the stove, "If I'm grounded, I can't go to the party, and I won't have to wear that kilt." This grounding business had definite possibilities, if he could just maneuver it to coincide with festivities he'd just as soon not attend. He gave himself a mental kick for not having thought of that years ago.

~~~~~~~~~~

"If this manuscript of yours is so important, how did you manage to misplace it?" Duncan muttered, tossing several leather bound reports aside.

"It wasna difficult," Dougal assured him from the other side of the office, ankle-deep in file folders. "I'm sure it's here somewhere... Ha! Gotcha, ye wee bugger!" he crowed triumphantly, waving the item in question in the air.

"Remind me never to send you any paperwork for safe keeping," Duncan said, dropping the remainder of the reports on a side table and lifting a dagger-shaped letter opener from the table top, twirling it idly in his fingers, his mind elsewhere. "You've lived here how long now...seven years?"

"Aye, abou' that. Ye know that we have te move around after a while or risk exposure fer what we are."

"Mmm. Are there other Immortals here in Inverness?" Duncan asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

Something about that emotionless tone had Dougal looking up from the stack of papers atop his desk. "None that I know of, but it's a verra large city. Why?"

"It's probably nothing," Duncan assured him with a tight smile, briefly debating whether to say anything further as he placed the dagger back on the desk. His friend's concerned eyes spurred him on. "The other day in town I felt another Immortal, and I would have sworn the sensation was from somewhere to my right. Moments later, you showed up-several feet behind me."

"Well, then, that explains it. Your perception was off, that's all."

"Maybe."

"Hae ye sensed anything since?"

"No. I just have this nagging feeling that I can't throw off."

"Relax, mon. It's the memories o' Culloden that hae ye spooked. All those men, women and bairns, all those clans, slaughtered. It's enough te put anyone on edge."

"I have been thinking about it a lot," Duncan admitted.

"Of course ye have. 'Tis only natural. Rest easy, mon, you're among friends here."

Duncan clapped him on the shoulder. "I know, and you're right. I'm letting the ghosts of the past spook me." He laughed then. "Richie would tell me to chill."

"Chill?"

"American slang. It means calm down, don't worry."

"Aye, well, the laddie's right...and I'm surprised ye didna bring him wi' ye today. I thought ye wanted him te learn o' Scottish history."

"Richie's going to be spending some time at home for a while."

"For his wee outing last night, I take it," Dougal said knowingly.

"You heard?"

"A bit o' it. I'd not be too hard on the lad, Duncan. He's feeling his oats. It's te be expected."

"He'll be feeling something else if he disappears like that again," Duncan countered darkly.

"Ah, so it's like that, is it?" Dougal remarked astutely, leaning back in his chair and trying not to smile. "Ye were worried abou' him and ye didna want him te know it."

"Don't look so pleased with yourself," Duncan grumbled, settling himself on the edge of the desk. "What was I supposed to tell him? 'There may be another Immortal around. I haven't seen him, or heard from him, and even if he does exist he may not be a threat, but you're not to leave my side, just in case.' He already thinks I'm overprotective, I don't need to prove it to him."

"Well, it willna hurt te keep him close te home fer a few days if it will help ye 'chill'."

"Two weeks," Duncan corrected. "He needs to learn that drinking is not a recreational activity."

Dougal grunted his opinion of that comment. "I see ye've no told him the story o' how ye were well into your cups in Versailles when ye were five times his age. Nor of the time ye lost your purse te a lady o' the evening because ye passed out and fell off your horse on the way te a certain questionable establishment."

"Are you supposed to be helping?" Duncan growled. "We're talking about my son, here, not me. I'm trying to keep Richie from making some of the mistakes I made when I was his age."

"And much older," Dougal tossed in. He subsided and threw his hands up as Duncan turned to glare at him. "He'll no be going te the Remembrance if he's grounded, will he now?"

"I thought about that after the fact," Duncan admitted, sighing heavily. "I can't withdraw the punishment now. Besides, he's probably secretly delighted about staying home. He wasn't looking forward to modeling a kilt in front of so many strangers."

"Aye, well, it's been a few years fer me, as well. I'll be praying fer a calm night wi' no wind. I'd no want te be shockin' your lovely Tessa wi' my grand endowments. I'd hate te have her become dissatisfied wi' ye," he added, eyes twinkling merrily.

"I haven't had any complaints," Duncan smirked. "And I don't recall you being so 'grand'."

"Och, well, it was cold in the hills," Dougal sniffed indignantly.

"Uh-huh. That must have been it."

"It's a shame the laddie will be shut up in the house for so long," Dougal said, turning back to the earlier subject. "I was hoping te venture te Loch Ness with all o' ye next weekend. Richie seemed eager te search the dark waters for Nessy. We would have had a grand time. O' course, ye know best, being his da and all."

"All right, all right. If Richie manages to behave himself this week I'll cancel the rest of the grounding. Will that make you happy?"

"Aye, verra," Dougal grinned back at him. "I've no had any youngsters o' my own fer o'er a hundred years-I've taken a liking te playing uncle te yours."

"Maybe you'd like to borrow him for a few years. You might change your mind about that."

Dougal studied the smaller man intently for a moment. "Ye can't fool me, Duncan MacLeod. I know ye too well. Ye'd no give up the lad fer a month, let alone years. Ye say Richie didna want te start college right away. Did ye agree te that for his sake, or yours?" He smiled knowingly as Duncan turned away to gaze out the window. "Te live four hundred years without a child and then te have one finally, it fills an empty place in your soul," he murmured, lost in his own thoughts, and looked up to find that now it was Duncan studying him. "Aye, I've felt it myself. It's a risk te open your heart te a child, Donnchadh, mortal or immortal, but there is nae grander prize on this Earth than the pride and love ye feel fer them. Ye must ne'er be ashamed o' it."

Duncan crossed the room to stand beside him. "I'm not ashamed of it, my friend," he said, squeezing one of MacPherson's broad shoulders, "but it scares me sometimes. I have a wonderful wife and son. Sometimes I think God will decide I have more than my share and take them away from me."

"If He does, He'll have me te answer te," Dougal informed him gruffly, and Duncan laughed, his spirits lifted.

"Let's hope that won't be necessary for fifty or sixty years."

"I second that. Too bad I've no Scotch around, we could drink a toast te it."

"Don't even mention Scotch to me. I wrung enough of it out of my son to kill my taste for the stuff for a while."

"Then I suppose ye'd no be interested in Bourbon?" Dougal scrounged around in the wall cabinet, extracting a bottle and two glasses.

"I didn't say that," Duncan retorted, accepting one of the glasses of dark liquid.

Dougal filled his own and they raised them together.

"Te life," Dougal offered.

"To love," Duncan countered, and both Scots drank to the sentiment with lighter hearts.

~~~~~~~~~~

The men returned home after an unhurried lunch and Duncan collected Tessa, making good on a promise he had made to show her the hall before the Remembrance started so that she could study some of the authentic pieces at her leisure without crowds of people about. From the gleam in her eye as they left, Richie suspected she planned to do some shopping, as well.

He, of course, was left behind to amuse himself within the confines of the house and, without his stereo and computer, he was finding that task difficult. How he was supposed to survive this for two whole weeks was beyond him. Dougal did have a television set, but Scottish TV was...well, different from what he was accustomed to. He did manage to keep himself occupied for a couple of hours, skimming through some books on seventeenth century Scotland, a subject near to his heart, seeing that his father had still been a member of the Clan MacLeod during the early part of it. He was unable to find anything on the clan itself, however, and put the book aside with a dramatic sigh.

"On yer own, are ye?"

Richie glanced up to see Dougal regarding him from the entryway, wearing a small smile.

"Yeah, I guess," he replied, with a grin and a shrug.

"Yer folks have been gone awhile now, haven't they?"

"Yeah, well, they're both into older stuff. Mom, for the artistic side of it and Dad, for sentimental reasons, I guess. You know what I mean-he remembers when it wasn't an antique."

"Aye, laddie, I understand. Your mother says you're quite the artist yourself."

Richie felt a blush rising on his face. "Yeah, well, I'm okay. I'm not too good at sketching, but I like working with metals. Once I was old enough, Mom taught me how to use the blowtorch to shape things. I do all right," he said modestly.

"Better than that if your parents are te be believed. Your Da is like te run on abou' ye in his letters. Did ye no sell a sculpture or two?"

"Well, a friend of Mom's-another artist-bought one a couple years ago, and one I made when I was fifteen is in the Seacouver Children's Museum of Modern Art. But, it's no big deal."

"Sounds like a verra big deal te me," Dougal informed him, causing Richie's blush to deepen.

"What I'd really like to do is work with antiquities, like you do...or be a world-renowned motorcyclist. Either one's good," he added with a cheeky grin.

Dougal's laugh came from deep in his chest. "Well, I've no got a motorcycle, but I've a few odds and ends ye might find o' interest," he said, motioning Richie to follow him to his study at the back of the house.

The teenager's mouth dropped open as he viewed the assortment of medieval through early twentieth-century weaponry mounted upon the dark woodwork and lying in pristine cases along the walls.

"Man, this stuff is great!" the teenager exclaimed, eagerly moving from one case to another.

"Do ye no sell pieces like these in the store?"

"Nah," Richie uttered, nearly pressing his nose to the glass of one of the displays, trying to get a better look. "We've had a couple of daggers come through, and some swords, and once Dad found an emerald-encrusted dirk, but nothing like this."

"Then I don't suppose ye've seen one of these," Dougal murmured, pulling a carved wooden box from the upper drawer of a rosewood cabinet and opening it to display a mint-condition handgun lying in folds of black velvet.

Richie's widened eyes roamed over the pistol appreciatively. "Hey, wow, this is an original Colt Revolver, isn't it? I've got a book at home that has a picture of one, but it wasn't anywhere near as nice as this."

"Ye've a good eye, laddie," Dougal praised, lifting the gun from its velvet bed. "Aye, I've had this since 1837. It's one o' the first fifty e'er made. Fine workmanship. I've turned most o' the pieces I've found through the years over te the university, but these were all personal possessions at one time o' another. Here," he said, offering the piece to the teenager, "feel the balance."

Richie reached out instinctively, then drew his hand back. "Um, maybe I'd better not."

"Not te fear, lad, it's no been fired in many years," Dougal assured him, secretly gratified at this unexpectedly mature approach to handling a weapon.

"Yeah?" Richie asked, and at the Scot's nod he eagerly accepted the invitation, taking up the pistol and letting its weight rest in the palm of his right hand. "Awesome," Richie enthused, turning it from side to side and tracing the pearl insets and intricate engraving on the barrel with one finger. "Man, I'd love to study stuff like this."

"Then why don't ye?"

Richie gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, raising the gun and squinting at the far wall as he took aim at an imaginary target. "My folks don't like guns much."

"Why is that?"

Richie opened his mouth to explain, but a muted gasp from the hallway had him swinging his head around in that direction. Duncan and Tessa stood in frozen silence just inside the room. The Frenchwoman had a death grip on her husband's arm, her eyes staring at her son in muted shock, while the dark-haired Immortal's face was a careful blank-to anyone who didn't know him, at least. Richie knew him very well and felt the color drain from his own face as their eyes locked and a memory surfaced unbidden.

~~Seacouver-April 1988~~

"Have you seen Richie? Lunch is almost ready." Tessa placed the platter containing a number of ham and cheese sandwiches in the center of the kitchen table.

"I think he's out back. I'll get him," Duncan offered, heading in that direction. Richie was indeed in the alley behind the shop, holding something and tossing it playfully from one hand to another. "Richie..."

The boy turned in surprise and Duncan had a clear view of the item in his hands. A small handgun-a Luger by the looks of it-in excellent condition.

"Richie, put that down," he said, his voice sounding far away to his own ears. He vaguely registered the fact that Tessa had come up beside him and was staring in horror at their son.

"It's okay, Dad. I've got the safety on," Richie said airily, blithely taking aim at the dumpster and pulling on the trigger.

A bullet fled its chamber, striking the corner of the metal dumpster and ricocheting off. Duncan was in motion a split second before the trigger was pulled, pushing Tessa back inside and throwing his body protectively around his son. He grunted in pain as the bullet entered the back of his shoulder, and stumbled forward, his other arm still wrapped around the boy.

"Dad!" Richie cried, trying to support his father as Tessa ran from the building to join them, adding her cries to his.

"I'm all right," he assured them both, clenching his teeth as the wound healed—blue light playing across it. A moment later he stood straight again, the only evidence of the accident a small bloody hole in his shirt.

Duncan looked down at Richie then and took the gun from the boy's numb fingers, clicking the safety into place and ejecting the magazine. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, his expression grim.

"I...I found it...in the dumpster," Richie stammered.

His father took a deep breath and turned to Tessa. "I'll call the police. They can come and pick it up."

"Dad, I..." the words froze in Richie's throat as he saw the look his father leveled at him, and he swallowed uneasily. His mind raced for a way out of his current predicament, but he couldn't think clearly with his father standing over him-anger rolling off of him in waves. A part of him was aware that his legs were shaking and he clamped his hands down at his sides, trying to still the movements.

"I want you to go to your room," Duncan ordered. "I'll be in as soon as we've explained all of this to the police."

Richie cast a nervous glance at his mother and she reached out and brushed a stray curl out of his face. "Your father's right, Richie. Go inside, Petit."

Richie waited in his room, sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He hadn't seen his dad that angry in some time. Not since a certain sword fight in a warehouse the year before. He hadn't known Duncan MacLeod was an Immortal then, didn't know they even existed until a few months ago. But knowing his father couldn't die from a bullet wound didn't make it any easier to know he was responsible for his getting shot.

He had no doubts about what he was in for this time, which made the waiting that much worse. He'd heard the police come and go, had heard his parents talking in their room next to his and knew when his mother headed back toward the store, her light footsteps stopping momentarily outside his closed door before moving on. When his dad finally stood in the doorway looking down at him it was almost anti-climactic. His heartrate sped up and he swallowed convulsively as his father stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Duncan gazed down at his son. His very young, very mortal son. The thought of that bullet entering Richie's body filled him with dread. The very real possibility that it might have ended the boy's life and started him down the road of Immortality at the age of thirteen-never to age beyond that, never to have the strength to fight with a sword against grown Immortals out for his head-that thought scared Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod as nothing else could. He crossed to sit on the edge of the bed beside the boy, wanting to reach out and pull him into a hug, yet knowing this wasn't the time for it.

He was no longer wearing the blood-stained shirt-that would have raised questions with the police he couldn't readily answer, but Richie reached out to touch the material at the shoulder where the bullet had struck, feeling the warmth of his father's skin through the thin cotton.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, blue eyes regarding the Scot solemnly.

"No, it doesn't hurt," Duncan said simply.

Richie drew his hand back and swallowed hard. "I'm in big trouble, aren't I?"

Duncan sighed heavily in answer and ran a hand across weary eyes. "What am I gonna do with you?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"I thought the safety was on. I didn't mean to shoot it," Richie offered as an excuse.

"That's not the point, is it?"

"No, but—"

"You know better than to touch a gun. You've been told over and over that any type of weapon is off limits. You've seen for yourself what kind of damage a gun can do and you still picked that thing up and treated it like it was a harmless toy." Duncan's voice had risen with each point. "Do you know what could have happened out there?"

"Yes," Richie replied in a small voice.

"Do you, Richie?" Duncan asked again, holding his son's attention.

"I coulda shot Mom," Richie said just above a whisper, his chin sinking to his chest.

"Or yourself," Duncan added firmly. "We had a deal, didn't we? You don't put yourself in a dangerous situation; you don't disobey me or question orders when your safety or your mother's safety is in question; and you *don't* touch weapons without either your mother or myself present...*ever*."

"But it was just lying there and I was gonna bring it to you," Richie explained, then fell silent as his father's face darkened at his words.

"You should have left it where it was and come and found either your mother or me. You didn't do that," he scolded. "Did you?"

"No."

"No," Duncan repeated. "Instead you twirled it around and fired it blindly."

"But I thought—"

"Richie!" Duncan snapped, then took a calming breath. "I know, you thought the safety was on. It wasn't. And even if it had been, you and I would still be sitting here right now, having this same discussion."

Richie bobbed his head slightly in response before looking up at his father. "What if I promise that I'll never be bad again?" he asked guilelessly, already knowing the answer. He had endangered his life needlessly, and even his infinitely patient parents took a dim view of that.

Duncan actually smiled wryly at the offer. An impossible promise for a child to keep, and one he would never hold him to. "What do you think?"

A heavy sigh, then, "I know. This isn't about what I might do in the future, this is about what I already did," Richie droned, mimicking a lecture he'd heard more than once. He met his father's gaze squarely and nodded once. "Okay, Dad, I get it."

The look of fond exasperation mixed with pride that his father gave him almost made up for what came next. Almost.

Duncan MacLeod was both angry, and determined to drive his point home-there was no doubt of that in Richie's mind. If he hadn't been sure of it before the spanking, he was by the conclusion.

A fierce hug followed the proceedings as Duncan finally gave rein to his feelings of relief, and then Richie was left alone to get himself together before coming out to a belated lunch. After a short bout of sniffling and feeling rather sorry for himself, he emerged from his room with his usual good humor intact, if somewhat bruised. He grabbed a pillow from the couch as he passed-it never hurt to play up the sympathy aspect-and headed toward the smell of food.

His mother was in the kitchen when he arrived, looking for all the world as if she had been crying, too. He knew that was a silly notion. After all, what did she have to cry about?

"Hi, Mom," he greeted her uncertainly.

Tessa came to him on swift feet and wrapped her comforting arms around him. "Hello, Sweet." She sniffled softly and Richie wondered again if she'd been crying.

"I'm sorry," he offered, hugging her back.

"I know," she replied. "Your father knows that, too." She pulled away a little and brushed the hair back out of his eyes, letting the curls run through her fingers. "It grows so fast," she mourned with a small wistful smile. She started, then, as if remembering where she was, and led him to his chair, noticing the pillow in his hand for the first time. "I suppose you could eat from the center island. You wouldn't have to sit, that way."

He grinned ruefully at that. "No, it's okay, Mom." He dropped the pillow onto his chair and lowered himself carefully onto it, wincing despite his best efforts. "See?" he said, feeling the need to reassure her for some reason.

"Yes, I see," she answered, cupping his chin in her hand and kissing his forehead. She went to the refrigerator and retrieved the platter of sandwiches, placing it on the table for the second time that afternoon, then took her seat. "Your father will be here in a minute."

Richie eyed her thoughtfully for a moment in silence and fidgeted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Catching her sympathetic look he grinned again, earning one in return. "Dad won't ever have to do that again, Mom," he promised faithfully.

"I'm very glad to hear that, Petit," she admitted, smiling over at him fondly.

"So am I." Duncan stood in the doorway regarding his son for a full minute. He closed the distance between them, stopping beside the boy's chair. "How are you feeling, Toughguy?"

Richie shrugged. "I'm okay," he mumbled. "Well, mostly," he added, shifting on the pillow and wincing noticeably.

Duncan tried not to smile. "That's understandable," he granted.

"Yeah." Richie gazed at both of his parents shyly. "You guys still mad at me?"

Duncan and Tessa exchanged looks before answering.

"You planning on picking up any more guns, loaded or otherwise?" Duncan posed.

"No, sir. No more guns, not ever again," he vowed, shaking his head emphatically.

The adults shared a smile between them. "Then, no, we're not mad."

Richie smiled then, not his patented killer smile, but a winning one none-the-less.

"Isn't anyone hungry?" Tessa asked, shifting the conversation to lighter subjects.

"I'm starving to death," Richie announced dramatically.

"Then you'd better have *two* sandwiches," she retorted.

"Two!" he repeated in alarm.

"Three?"

"Yeah, three," Richie said, smiling widely.

Duncan snorted and ruffled the boy's hair ruthlessly before joining them at the table and watching his son wolf down three ham and cheese sandwiches and half a gallon of milk while talking a mile a minute, his near brush with disaster already a thing of the past.

~~

Richie broke eye contact first, lowering his raised arm with jerky motions. "Hi, Mom...Dad. Um, Dougal was just showing me some of his collection," he quickly explained and hastily set the gun back into its case, pulling his hands away as though scalded by the metal.

Duncan studied his son a moment longer in silence, then a small smile softened his features. "Then I'm sure it's not loaded," he murmured, trying to forget the way his heart had frozen in his chest at the sight of a gun in his son's hand.

A derisive snort met this statement. "As if ah would gie the Wee Scamp a loaded gun. Talk sense, mon," Dougal retorted.

"Douugaaal," Richie said on a plaintive wail at the use of the dreaded nickname, his temporary discomfort at the appearance of his parents forgotten. "Geez, can't you call me something else?"

"Sich as?"

"I don't know," Richie said, a crooked grin slowly lighting his face. "How about "His Studliness", or something like that?"

Neither Dougal nor Duncan made any attempt to hide their amusement at the suggestion; Tessa giggled behind one raised hand.

"Ah think "Wee Scamp" fits ye better, laddie," Dougal informed him, wearing a broad smile now.

"I agree," Duncan added, dropping Tessa's purchases onto the nearest chair.

"Terrific," Richie groused, scowling at the three adults by turns. "How's a guy supposed to get any respect with a pseudonym like that?"

"I didn't know gaining respect was high on your list of priorities," his mother replied, patting his cheek as she passed, looking over the collection of weapons with a jaundiced eye.

"Well, okay, so it's not *way* up there," he admitted reluctantly. "Number one on the list is talking Dad out of grounding me," he said, gazing hopefully at his father. "But respect is good, too."

"You have *our* respect, Son," Duncan assured him, draping an arm about the boy's shoulders. "But you're still grounded," he added, giving the red curls a quick ruffling, then trailing in Tessa's wake.

"Maaan. My life sucks."

~~~~~~~~~~

Dougal left for the hall an hour later with several members of the historical society in tow, ready to make any last-minute adjustments to the decor and be on hand to welcome the guests. He offered to take Tessa's red velvet cake along but, considering the fact that she had had to chase him away from it twice that afternoon, she thought it might be safer with her.

Duncan changed into his kilt and sporran, then spent another three-quarters of an hour waiting for his wife to appear. He gave an appreciative whistle when she did, admiring the fit of her blouse and the way the blue of the tartan brought out her eyes.

"You've never looked lovelier, Mrs. MacLeod."

She inclined her head in his direction, smiling brightly. "Why, thank you, Mr. MacLeod."

"Oh, brother," Richie muttered from his perch on the couch.

"Richie, did you put the food in the car?" she asked, ignoring his commentary.

"Yup, you're all set." He climbed to his feet and followed them to the door.

"Thank you, Petit," Tessa murmured, kissing him lightly. "I left your dinner in the kitchen with heating instructions. Just put it in the oven when you're ready to eat. There's also some chocolate custard, but eat your dinner first. All right?"

"Sure, Mom."

"We won't be too late," Duncan told him, helping Tessa into her wrap and slinging his own coat over one arm. "Lights out at eleven, whether we're back or not. You're under house rules for the next two weeks, remember?"

"Eleven! Come, on, Dad, we're on vacation-"

Duncan turned to pin him in place with a look. "Is there something about 'house rules' that I need to go over with you again?"

The teenager's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, then a subdued, "No, sir," came out.

"Good. Lock the door behind us. Dougal gave us his extra key in case we don't return with him."

"Yes, sir."

Tessa shook her head mildly at her husband and patted her son's arm. "We'll see you later, Sweet. Dinner first, then dessert," she reiterated.

"Yes, ma'am," Richie said, grinning crookedly. He moved into the doorway as the couple stepped out into the evening air. "Have a good time," he said wistfully, and pushed the door to.

Duncan waited until he heard the bolt slide home before turning toward the street.

Bartholomew Campbell watched as MacLeod and his lady left the MacPherson home-resplendent in the clan MacLeod ceremonial tartans. They stopped at the gate as Duncan looked back toward the house, then the couple proceeded to have a short, impassioned conversation that Campbell wasn't able to make out from his vantage point, before moving on to the dark sedan parked in front. Campbell waited until the car was out of sight before approaching the residence with barely concealed delight. He had known MacLeod would never think of missing the festivities held in remembrance of those who fell at Culloden-many of whom were much-loved countrymen-but the boy staying behind was something he could only have hoped for.

He left his vantage point and approached the front door with a spring in his step, barely able to hide his excitement as his plans began to come to life.

Richie answered the door on the second ring, sliding back the bolt and flinging the door wide after a quick glance out the front window to determine the identity of his unexpected visitor.

"Mr. Campbell! I didn't think you'd remember the address."

"Now that wouldn't be very sporting of me, would it? I made a promise, after all, and I *never* forget." His smile was almost feral, but the young redhead was too pleased to pay it any mind. "I thought you might like to see that cave formation I told you about the other day. I find that my evening is free and, from the appearance of the sky, it promises to be a clear night."

"Hey, yeah, cool...but—" Richie's smile vanished, replaced by a flush that rose to his cheeks. "I'd really like to, you know, but...I'm sort of under house arrest," he admitted sheepishly.

"I'm afraid I don't understand. House arrest? You are in trouble with the authorities?" Campbell asked, looking none-too-happy himself at what he perceived as an unneeded complication to his plans.

"Not with the authorities," Richie explained, "just with my folks. My dad, mostly. He's pretty mad at me right now," he continued, skipping the details. "So I'm grounded. I'm not supposed to leave the house."

A smile spread over Campbell's face at the news. "Ah, restricted to the premises. This, I understand. Although I always believed that to be a child's punishment. Not something for a young man," he commented, in what passed for commiseration. "I could be speaking out of turn—" he added, picking his words carefully. If the cub was at odds with his father, all the better.

"No, no," Richie quickly blurted out, rising to the bait. "I *am* too old, but..."

"Of course. I understand," Campbell assured him, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Another time, perhaps," he offered with a smile full of false sympathy as he turned back to the street.

He wasn't more than fifteen feet down the lane when Richie joined him. Campbell raised a speculative eyebrow at the adolescent, who shrugged guilelessly.

"Hey, like you said. I'm too old to be grounded. Besides," he added, for his own peace of mind, "I'll be back before they are. They'll never even know about it."

Walking a step ahead, Campbell's smile went unseen by the unwitting teenager.

~~~~~~~~~~

Richie kept up a steady stream of conversation throughout the drive into the hills, his pent up energy after being inside all day translating itself into a boyish enthusiasm for their little excursion.

Campbell pulled the vehicle off into a grove of trees, explaining that his research was still under wraps and that he didn't want any well-meaning travelers searching out the owner.

The teenager accepted this rationalization without argument, the mystery surrounding the man's work being responsible for at least part of his fascination with it.

They hiked the remaining few miles, leaving the road behind as they entered a densely-wooded area and heading up a seldom-used trail, barely discernible in the shadows cast by the trees to each side.

Richie wrapped his arms about himself as they moved onward. "Guess I should have worn a heavier jacket. I forgot how the temperature drops at night."

"We'll be inside out of the weather soon enough," his companion assured him, with barely a glance in his direction. "We're nearly there."

True to his word, a few yards further on Campbell led him into an aperture in the rock face that narrowed before opening into a large antechamber. Campbell stepped inside first, activating several strategically placed lanterns that alleviated the gloom and cast a warm glow about the cave.

Richie's eyes took a moment to adjust to the new light and then a smile lit his face.

Several symbols and a few vividly-drawn pictures covered the far wall-somewhat faded by the ravages of time, but clearly not part of the normal landscape.

Richie skirted around a beam in the center of the chamber and moved toward them.

"A support beam," Campbell told him. "It doesn't hurt to take precautions when working underground."

The teenager gave it no more than a cursory glance, his eyes already locked on the unfamiliar words and drawings.

"Can you read any of this?" he asked, as Campbell came to stand beside him.

"Yes. Most of it. It has to do with ceremony and ritual, mainly. The Celts drank the blood of their enemies, did you know that?" His tone gave nothing away, but there was a predatory gleam in his eye as he watched the youth that would have unnerved the redhead, had he seen it.

"Dad taught me a little bit about that. He said they were fierce fighters."

"Yes, they were-fierce, and unforgiving. No matter how many years it took, they tracked down their enemies. They never forgot. And neither do I." This last was said quite softly.

"What?"

Campbell turned toward the teenager then. "I said I never forget."

"Now you sound like my dad," Richie said with a short laugh. "He remembers everything."

"Does he?

The boy gave a slight shrug. "Well, it seems that way sometimes."

"That's very gratifying to know," Campbell murmured, and this time there was something in his voice that caught the teenager's attention and held it. The man's gaze returned to the boy's face in time to catch the look and he smiled. A smile that raised the hair on the back of Richie's neck. "Some of us have been blessed, or cursed, with very long memories," he added, his hand disappearing within the folds of his cloak.

Richie watched as Campbell slowly drew a sword from within, and felt his heart freeze, then drop to the vicinity of his stomach; his throat tightened painfully.

"Wha...What's that for?" he stammered, afraid he already knew the answer.

"What, this little thing?" Campbell commented, swishing the blade about blithely. "Just something I like to carry around."

"Uh-huh, okay. That makes sense," Richie uttered, trying to plaster a smile on his face, though his facial muscles weren't cooperating and he ended up with a rather sick imitation. "Um, you know, this has been great, really...great, but I'd better be getting home now." He was already inching toward the opening.

A flick of the man's wrist and the top button of Richie's shirt flew off at the end of his blade, leaving a small scratch in the skin below.

"Oh, I'd really rather you stayed," was the idle reply as Richie hastily backed away to a safe distance.

"What'd you do that for?" the teenager demanded, trying to still the tremors in his voice.

"Come now. Are you going to tell me you don't understand the significance of men carrying swords?" Campbell inquired, casually running one finger down the sharp edge of his weapon, cleanly slicing through the flesh.

Richie watched wide-eyed as blue light played over the cut, healing it almost instantly. "You're an Immortal," he breathed out, wanting to bite his tongue at the pleased smile that met his words.

"Ah, so your *father* has seen fit to enlighten you. I thought as much. Of course he's not *really* your father. Oh, I hope that doesn't come as a surprise," he added, with false chagrin.

"Not, hardly. I was twelve when I was adopted."

Campbell seemed disappointed that his barb hadn't hit home. "I see. And how old were you when you found out what he was?"

"Thirteen," Richie replied, eyes darting surreptitiously from one side of the cavern to the other, seeking another exit. "We went off the side of the road driving home from Portland in an ice storm. It was just him and me; Mom was gonna fly back in a few days." Campbell seemed content to stand where he was and listen for the moment, so Richie continued his narration, hoping to buy time-for what, he didn't know. "I was all right, but his ribs were crushed by the steering column and he was spitting up a lot of blood. I got him free, but he wouldn't let me go for help. He said he'd be okay and he made me promise to stay with him, then he passed out and he didn't move for a long time. He was so cold; I wrapped my coat around him, but I knew he was dead." Richie's voice had taken on the detached quality of one reliving a bad dream. "I guess I fell asleep or something, because the next thing I knew he was holding me and trying to rub the feeling back into my hands and arms, reading me the riot act for taking off my coat, and answering all my questions with 'We'll talk about it later.' And we did. He told me all about Immortals and The Game."

"Did he? Well, then you know why I've brought you here."

"If you think he'll come here just because you've got me, you're wrong," Richie informed him, talking fast now. "He's pretty mad at me right now, and...and he never liked me much, anyway. He'll probably thank you for taking me off his hands."

Campbell gave him a smile that made his skin crawl. "You're a very poor liar, boy."

"Yeah, well, I'm out of practice," Richie mumbled with a disgruntled air, taking small, mincing steps to the side.

Campbell's head tilted curiously to the side at the movement. "I do hope you're not going to do something foolish, like try to rush past me. I might accidentally run you through, and that would be a great pity."

"Yeah, I can see you're all broken up about it," the youth retorted glibly, but stood his ground.

"Enough talk. You'll notice the center beam behind you has a length of rope around it. You will place your hands behind you and slip them through the loops on either side. I will do the rest."

Richie laughed derisively. "If you think I'm gonna make everything all nice and easy for you, you're nuts."

"You should show respect for your elders, boy."

Richie sneered at that, despite his fear. "My parents taught me that respect is something you earn; it's not a prize you win for growing older. My dad told me he's met Immortals thousands of years old who weren't worth the time of day, and twelve-year-olds with the blood of kings in their veins."

A hand shot out to grasp Richie's chin painfully. "You will not quote Duncan MacLeod to me," Campbell said coldly. "Not ever. Do you understand?" He didn't wait for an answer, but released the teenager's chin with a sharp twist. "Now, you can either put your hands through those loops, or I'll chop one of them off. I'll even let you decide which hand it will be," he offered magnanimously.

The teenager's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides but he bowed to the inevitable, moving to the beam, turning his back to it and slipping his hands through the loops. He glared at the man's self-satisfied grin.

"Wise choice," Campbell murmured, moving up behind the boy confidently. "I knew when I first met you that you had a head on your shoulders." He chuckled at his own little joke. "Yes, I had no doubts that you would eventually see things my way."

"You planning on talking me to death?" Richie asked with false bravado.

"So, the cub bares his teeth. I didn't think you had it in you," Campbell murmured, laying aside his sword in order to tighten the ropes.

"Oh, I'm just full of surprises," Richie said under his breath, a second before throwing his right foot back and up. It connected with Campbell's kneecap with a satisfying crunch.

The Immortal's scream filled the chamber as his leg buckled under him, throwing him to the side.

Richie wasted no time in yanking against the unsecured bindings, freeing one wrist and cursing as precious moments passed, shortening his window of opportunity. He pulled his left wrist clear, leaving behind a layer of epidermis, and sprinted awkwardly across the uneven ground, the now-dark opening his goal.

Richie burst out into a cold wind that temporarily shocked his senses, and veered toward the path he couldn't quite make out in the meager light from the moon overhead. He stumbled over a tree root but stayed on his feet, gritting his teeth as branches caught at his arms and legs and tore strands of hair out by the roots.

Pounding footsteps behind him combined with the beating of his own heart- both sounding inordinately loud to his ears-and he pushed forward, suddenly grateful for all those morning runs over rough terrain that his father had forced on him over the years.

He stumbled to a halt as he came up against an impenetrable wall of rock, realizing too late that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. A hand fell upon his shoulder, tightening painfully and a voice rasped harshly behind him.

"That was a mistake, boy. One that will cost you dearly."

Richie was forty pounds lighter and no match for a grown man with a sword, but he never had been one to give up without a fight, even when the odds were against him.

Using one of the moves his father had taught him, he slumped his shoulders in apparent defeat, then swung around unexpectedly, lashing out with his arm and hitting Campbell squarely in the chest with his open palm.

The Immortal grunted and staggered back a pace, but kept his balance. In a retaliatory strike he lunged forward and grabbed a handful of the teenager's hair, yanking until tears came to Richie's eyes, his other arm wrapping around the boy's neck.

Richie tried to twist free, fighting for all he was worth until a fist made contact with his cheek hard enough to stun him. Another followed and the ground came up to greet him with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Hands grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet, yanking him along the trail, stopping only long enough to back-hand him again when he feebly struggled against them. Everything passed in a blur for several minutes and then he was thrown to the ground, where he fought to catch his breath and clear his head. Campbell didn't give him much time for either, dragging him backwards and propping him up against the beam once more. His arms were wrenched behind him without pity and he clamped his teeth down on his lower lip to stifle a cry as little stars exploded behind eyelids closed against the pain.

His wrists secured at last, Campbell reappeared in front of him, smiling sardonically.

"Like your father, you have caused me no end of aggravation and I'm afraid that cannot go unpunished." His tone was conversational, almost pleasant, but his eyes were as cold as obsidian as he closed the distance between them.

Richie's last coherent thought before pain exploded in his head and the darkness swallowed him again was that maybe wearing a kilt to a party wouldn't have been so bad, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Duncan, calm down."

"I *am* calm," Duncan grumbled, pacing the length of the living room. "Just because I'm going to beat him within an inch of his life when he gets back, doesn't mean I'm not calm."

The blonde stepped into his path, stopping him in mid-step. "Don't you think I'm angry, too? Maybe he had a good reason for leaving the house."

"What good reason?"

"I don't know. Maybe...maybe he hurt himself and went to find a doctor." As soon as the words were out of her mouth a stricken expression settled over them both and they turned as one, striding purposefully for the phone.

Fifteen minutes later, Duncan hung up the receiver. "No one matching Richie's description has been admitted to any of the area hospitals."

"What about the police? Shouldn't we contact them?"

"And tell them what? They'll ask if he's ever disappeared like this before, and the answer is yes, just the other night and, no, he wasn't hurt, he was drunk."

"Duncan-"

"Tessa, there's also the fact that he's only been missing a few hours and, as he's so fond of telling us, he's nineteen. The police aren't going to go out searching for one misplaced teenager when there are no signs of foul play. The only thing that seems to be missing here is Richie himself."

Tessa didn't like it, but she bowed to the logic of that and settled in on the couch to wait. Duncan preferred pacing and muttering, and excelled at both. Dougal returned within the hour and, after hearing of the teenager's latest unauthorized excursion, did his best to reassure them both; failing that, he headed for his room.

He reappeared sometime later and joined Duncan in pacing the floor, muttering about teaching the wee scamp a lesson for worrying his parents. No mention was made of his own escalating worry, but he and Duncan exchanged glances that clearly communicated the sentiment-both were remembering their conversation at the university concerning another Immortal and wondering if they shouldn't have given the subject more attention.

Duncan was also regretting his last words to his son. He had been abrupt and unnecessarily stern with him as they had left for the festivities-Tessa had taken great pains to point that out to him on the way to the car-and he regretted that now. The image of a subdued Richie, standing in the doorway wishing them well, rose up in his mind to taunt him and a chill passed through him. Was that to be the last time he saw the boy-the memory that would haunt him forever?

Another hour passed.

Duncan called the hospitals again while Dougal made a circuit of the street, knocking on doors and waking neighbors from their sleep to ask if anyone had seen the boy the evening before, or since. None had.

Playing a hunch, MacPherson drove down to the pub where Richie's recent woes had started. The bartender remembered the personable young American, but was quite certain he hadn't seen him since that night. Another dead end.

When a courier arrived in the early hours of the morning, innocently ringing the doorbell and awaiting an answer, he was startled to find two large Scots towering over him within moments, relieving him of his delivery-a lone letter-and more or less slamming the door in his face.

"What is it, Duncan? Is it from Richie?" a gaunt-faced Tessa asked anxiously.

Duncan had already ripped open the envelope and withdrawn a single sheet of paper. Tessa moved in to read it at his side; Dougal perused it from over the smaller man's shoulder.

~~ The presence of Duncan MacLeod, late of the clan MacLeod, is requested at the site designated below. Failure to appear will result in the loss of a son. Formal attire is not required, though a sword is recommended for those who wish to keep their heads. ~~

A small, meticulously drawn map filled the bottom of the page.

"We have to give this to the police right away," Tessa declared, already moving toward the phone.

"No, Tessa, we can't risk that. He's an Immortal. That by itself means he's more than capable of carrying out his threat, and we don't know if he's working alone. Even if he is, if he sees the police he may kill Richie outright."

The Frenchwoman froze with her hand on the receiver. "You're right. We have to go alone."

"You're not coming, Tessa."

"Of course I'm coming. He's my son, too, Duncan."

"I know that, Love, but you have to stay here, where you'll be safe. You have to stay here," he elaborated before she could interrupt, "for the same reason that I was always onto Richie to not follow me...if I have to watch out for you, then I can't watch my own back, and, in this case, I won't be able to protect Richie the way I might need to. Do you understand?"

Tessa closed her eyes, her hands pressed to her cheeks. "Yes," she said strongly, though her voice held a tell-tale waver. "Yes, I understand. For Richie's sake, I have to stay here."

"That's right," he confirmed, taking one of her hands in his and giving it a squeeze.

"I'm scared, Duncan." A tear escaped to slide down one cheek unnoticed.

"I know." 'I am, too,' he wanted to say, but didn't. She didn't need to know that, not right now. Right now she needed his strength and she would have it. "I'll bring him home, Tessa," he promised, and there was such conviction in his voice that she didn't doubt it at that moment. He saw that in the shaky breath she took, in the small, tentative smile she gave him, and the way her hand suddenly gripped his.

"Be careful."

"Always," he promised, leaning in to place the lightest of kisses on her lips. "Always."

A silent Dougal followed him to the door.

"If things go badly..." Duncan said, only to trail off.

"I'll take care o' the lassie. No harm will come te her. Ye've my word on it," Dougal vowed.

Duncan nodded once, then turned with coat in hand, slipping out the door and into the early morning darkness.

"We'll be waiting fer the two of ye te return!" Dougal called out with a wave and a smile, seeing from Tessa's face that his attempt to alleviate her concerns with a light-hearted attitude had not succeeded. He moved to her side, taking one of her hands in his. "We'll be waiting," he repeated, drawing her down beside him on the couch, patting her hand as she rested her head on his broad shoulder and gave in to her tears.

It was nearly five a.m. when Duncan pulled the rental car off the road, parking it next to another vehicle, as indicated by the map. He followed the path he found with senses honed, trying to pick up the presence of another Immortal or, better yet, of a pre-Immortal.

He was a few miles from the road when the feel of a full-blown Immortal hit him, stopping him in his tracks as he focused his attention in that direction, katana in hand.

A fair-haired man in a flowing cloak stepped into view, smiling broadly, his own sword at the ready. "Ah, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. How I have dreamed of this moment. Oh, but I've been remiss...I must introduce myself. Bartholomew Campbell, at your service," he said with a practiced bow.

Duncan eyed him closely, certain he didn't know the man. "Why did you take my son?"

"Take? Oh, it wasn't as difficult as all that. He came willingly...at first. Yes, he was quite angry with you and I was, of course, very sympathetic. Unfortunately, it required a little persuading on my part to convince him to stay."

"What did you do to him?" Duncan demanded, taking a step forward, eyes hard.

"Nothing that won't heal...in time. You really should have taught the boy some manners, MacLeod."

"Why Richie? Why me?" Duncan asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.

"Why? Why! You destroyed my life, Highlander." Campbell spoke through tightly clenched teeth.

Here at last was some emotion, not that even, carefully cultured tone that concealed more than it revealed.

Duncan's eyes narrowed as he took in the features of the other man, searching for something familiar, something that might explain this charade, but there was nothing.

Campbell scowled at the lack of recognition. "Don't tell me you don't remember. Ah, but then you undoubtedly slaughtered so many that day that we all tend to run together in your mind."

"That day?"

"April sixteenth, 1746."

"The Battle of Culloden."

"Yes, when the Young Pretender was sent scurrying with his tail between his legs," Campbell confirmed contemptuously.

Duncan didn't bother to dignify that with an answer. "So, you died at Culloden. You weren't alone. What's that have to do with me?"

"Do you think I could forget your face...or your name? 'MacLeod! Here, MacLeod! Lend a hand, laddie!' they called to you as I gasped at the end of your sword. You barely spared me a glance as you drew it out and ran off, but I remember. Oh, yes, Jacobite, I remember." His tone turned conversational again, and Duncan watched as he reined in what remained of his sanity.

"I lay on that field for hours, watching my life's blood drain away onto the ground, mixing with that of countless others, praying for death to come. I thought myself lucky when I was taken from the field to one of the few medical tents." He laughed then, a sound devoid of humor. "I would have been better off to have died alone and unseen, that at least would have required no explanation. No, I died among friends-men who knew me well-who would carry the word back to England, to my loved ones." He turned to contemplate the dark Scot. "Do you know what it's like to revive among the dead, MacLeod? To have bodies piled on top of you? To have to claw your way out? I do. You see, they put me in a community grave. Me!" he spat out, eyes wild. "A man of property and influence. Left me there to rot with men not fit to wipe my boots."

"You stole everything from me that day...my fiancee, my home, my *life*. When she learned of my death at Culloden, my intended married another man. I killed him as soon as I made my way back to England, of course...and her. She seemed rather surprised to see me," he murmured in a detached voice, eyes momentarily unfocused.

"For years I prayed to find you again. When I heard the name Duncan MacLeod shouted across an open square, I dared not hope it was the same man, but there was no mistaking you, Highlander. You've haunted my dreams for nearly two hundred and fifty years. Tell me, did you die that same day, or later? It couldn't have been much longer, you've changed little."

"I died at Culloden," Duncan admitted, eager to end this discussion and find his son. "It wasn't my first death."

Campbell's eyes narrowed at that and Duncan wished he had held his tongue. "An Immortal before the battle. Not much of a risk for you, was it?" He didn't wait for an answer, but rushed on. "I don't suppose the hum of a pre-Immortal even registered among the battle cries and fighting. I doubt you would have left me my head if it had. And, for myself, I had no idea what I was until much later."

"You've had your say, Campbell. Now, where's my son?"

"Patience is a virtue, MacLeod. One I see you don't possess," he sniffed. "Very well. If you're so eager." He gestured for Duncan to lead off and followed, walking several feet to the side and well out of striking range.

As they approached an opening in the rock face, Duncan picked up the buzz of a pre-Immortal and hastened his steps, ducking inside and moving into the larger chamber. He spied Richie immediately, propped against the beam, hands bound behind him, head slumped forward on his chest.

Keeping the other man in sight peripherally, he went to his son, going down on one knee and cupping the boy's chin. He raised the pale face gently, his eyes moving over the much-loved features even as his mind catalogued the swelling and bruises. "Richie?" he murmured softly, trying to raise some response from the still form. He rested his forehead against that of the battered teenager for a moment. "I'm here, Son. No one's going to hurt you now."

"How very touching," Campbell sneered. "Oh, don't look so concerned. He's not dead. But then you know that, don't you? You can sense him just as I did that first time we met. That oh-so-subtle hum of his. Rather like a mosquito. How do you tolerate it?"

Duncan looked up at him then, hatred oozing from every pore.

"Oh, I know what you're thinking, Highlander. Why shouldn't you just take the boy and go? But then you'd never know when I might show up again. Bothersome thing, that. And perhaps next time it will be your attractive wife I take."

"I don't think so," Duncan said with deadly resolve as he rose to his feet. He spared one more glance for his son. "It ends here, Sassenach."

Campbell wrinkled his nose as though he smelled something offensive. "You really are an arrogant bastard, MacLeod. Tell me, how many of your civilized friends know what a bloodthirsty barbarian you are at heart?"

"This from a man who uses a child as a shield," Duncan said derisively as he moved away from the unconscious teenager.

"Not a shield. Bait, perhaps, but then he was rather effective in that regard, was he not? Besides, I have plans for the boy. He's quite charming when he chooses to be. Once he's had the proper training, I'm sure I could find an interested buyer." He noted MacLeod's barely suppressed rage with satisfaction. "Then again, I might simply kill him just to see the expression on his face when he revives. I'm assuming you haven't told him what he is. Yes, having him depend on me totally for his survival is an extremely appealing notion."

"Over my dead body," Duncan ground out.

"Well, yes, that goes without saying," Campbell returned loftily, twirling his sword. "Shall we?"

They left the cave by tacit agreement, realizing the structure was not likely to withstand a Quickening and, in Duncan's mind at least, removing Richie from the battleground was a critical point.

They moved a few yards farther off into a clearing, walking a circle around the perimeter, taking each other's measure in silence as the sun broke over the horizon.

Their swords met in a clash of steel-the battle engaged.

Duncan's sword seemed a mere extension of his arm as he advanced and retreated, his movements as fluid as any dancer's. He focused his mind totally on his opponent, not allowing himself to think of what hung in the balance should he lose. Emotion was lethal here. If Campbell had thought to unnerve him enough to make him easy game, he had underestimated the Scot greatly and that, in itself, could be a deadly mistake.

Campbell proved himself to be the consummate showman, his thrusts and parries given with all the aplomb he possessed. What he lacked in grace he made up for in enthusiasm, throwing his whole body into each powerful strike. He scored the first hit, piercing Duncan's shoulder with a move long practiced and allowed himself a congratulatory bow at the pained look that crossed the dark-haired Immortal's face.

His moment of pleasure was short-lived.

Even as the wound healed, Duncan's katana came up in an arc, neatly slicing through the other man's sword arm. He didn't waste time on theatrics as Campbell staggered back. A twist of his wrist, a small adjustment in position and his katana plunged deep into the Immortal's belly.

Campbell's eyes widened in pain and surprise as Duncan drew the sword out again in a near repeat of their encounter on another battlefield-though, this time, only one of them would leave alive.

Duncan moved to the side, resolved, and raised the katana high, finishing it with a smooth downward stroke.

He took two paces back and waited, watching the cloud rise from the body, its tendrils seeking him out unerringly. Then came the pain, coursing through him, ripping at his mind, sending him images of life and death while the trees around him broke apart in the cataclysm-undergrowth bursting into bright, short-lived flame.

He was on his knees at the end, katana still gripped tightly in his hand as the aftershocks tore through him, leaving him feeling both depleted and renewed.

Duncan climbed to his feet, spared a single glance for the empty shell on the ground, and turned back toward the cave.

Richie was conscious when he entered, struggling against the ropes with a disregard for the skin he was leaving behind. He froze as a shadow fell over him, jerking his head up and blinking in surprise.

"Dad!"

The Immortal moved to him on swift feet.

"Dad, Campbell, he—"

"—won't bother us anymore," Duncan finished, his eyes sending a silent message.

The teenager nodded wordlessly, eyes wide as he belatedly took in his father's torn and bloody clothing.

Duncan broke his gaze reluctantly and moved to the side of the beam. His katana made short work of the bindings that held Richie down and he pulled the boy to his feet, steadying him as he swayed.

"Are you hurt?" he asked gruffly, betraying none of his inner turmoil.

"No...no, I'm okay," Richie assured him, his voice shaking slightly as he rubbed the circulation back into his wrists and hands.

Duncan scrutinized him closely, noting the bruises and dried blood on the boy's face with a forbidding expression that had Richie swallowing nervously.

"You're mad, huh?"

"I'm mad," Duncan confirmed, eyes locking on the teen until he fidgeted and looked away. His emotions were fighting a silent war inside him. Now that Richie was safe, he was furious with the boy...and so relieved his legs nearly shook with it.

"Your mother's worried," he stated, not trusting himself to say more as he turned away toward the trail.

Richie trudged along behind, eyeing his father's stiff back with a good deal of trepidation. He was all too familiar with the phrase 'calm before the storm' as it pertained to Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, having seen it up close and personal more than a few times.

He mentally kicked himself as he moved woodenly down the path. He'd been foolish and careless and had broken one of his parents' main rules: never go off alone with sword-wielding Immortals. Richie had thought the rule was funny once, not anymore. It had been brought home to him in a hundred different ways that this was one area where his parents knew a lot more than he did.

"Dad?"

Duncan stopped, but didn't turn.

"How mad are you...exactly?"

He did turn then, and gave his son a look that spoke volumes.

"Oh," Richie mumbled, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "That's what I figured," he added in a small voice.

Duncan stood contemplating his son in silence. Besides the bruises on the boy's face there were tell-tale signs of exhaustion in his stance and the paleness of his skin, and he had what looked like the beginnings of a black eye. The Scot sighed wearily and took several deep calming breaths. "Richie, come here."

"Uh..."

Duncan smiled slightly at the boy's hesitation. "Come here," he repeated in a gentler tone.

Richie swallowed again and approached his father warily, less than reassured by the tight smile he wore.

He stopped less than a foot away and waited for his father to smack him upside the head. It seemed as though everyone had taken great delight in doing that lately, and if anyone had just cause it was Duncan MacLeod.

Duncan did raise his hand, and Richie braced himself for a solid whap, but all he received was a fierce frown when his father saw him tense. The Scot cupped the teen's chin and touched the bruises on his son's cheek and jaw with a surprisingly gentle hand. "Your mother's going to have a fit," he muttered, then grasped Richie by the shoulders and pulled him into a bone-crushing hug that temporarily squeezed the wind out of the boy. "I thought we'd lost you," he said just above a whisper, waiting for Richie to relax against him before pushing him back to arm's length.

"I'm not that easy to lose, ya know?" Richie said, grinning sheepishly

"Tough guy, huh?"

The teen grinned crookedly at the familiar nickname. "Not so tough, Dad," he admitted.

Duncan smiled wistfully at that. "You'll do," he countered with a touch of pride.

Richie's stomach chose that moment to growl loudly.

"Hungry?"

"Starved."

"If you play your cards right, you'll probably have a grand feast sitting in front of you thirty minutes after we walk through the door."

Richie smiled at the image that conjured up. "I could definitely handle that." He dropped the smile then and regarded his father apprehensively. "I'm still in trouble though, huh?"

"Oh, yeah."

Richie nodded, frowning unhappily. "Yeah."

Duncan smiled easily for the first time since his son had disappeared and draped an arm across the boy's shoulders. "Let's go home, Son."

~~~~~~~~~~

Duncan and Tessa walked arm-in-arm up the quaint cobblestone path toward St. Alphonse's in their Sunday best, enjoying the early morning air and the start of a peaceful day.

"Grounded for life! What does that mean 'grounded for life'? Is that, like, grounded for two months? 'Cause two months would really feel like a lifetime, you know." Richie rambled on, following them up the path and never skipping a beat. "Yeah, I think two months would really teach me a good lesson. I mean, without being harsh, 'cause you don't want to be accused of being harsh, right? Right, Mom? Mom? Uh, Dad? Okay...three months. Yeah, three months sounds fair. I mean after three months I *know* I'd never be that stupid again. And that's the whole point, right? Right?"

As the family turned the bend in the street and continued toward the church doors, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in days, its rays shining down on a family of three who had much to be thankful for. Clouds lingered on the horizon, a portent of things to come, perhaps...or not. For now they appeared content to keep their distance, allowing the sun to spread its warmth upon the small clan MacLeod...and bonny Scotland.

~~~~~~~~~~ End


End file.
